


120 Hours

by imanadultiguess



Series: Makeshift Family [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim's kinks are kinda dark, M/M, Moran's just not game, Oral Sex, THERE IS SO MUCH SENSUAL FLUFF, THIS WILL NOT BE THE DARKSEX FIC YOU'RE LOOKING FOR, This is the story of Moran being super caring and sweet and pursuing his boyfriend, heed the warnings, mentions of unconscious sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: UPDATED WITH FANART by the lovely hippano IN CHAPTER 4.Set during my story "A Family Grew Around Me."  You don't have to read it to read this one.  Just be aware that Jim and Basher have a daughter and a pretty unhealthy relationship.After some problems in the bedroom (Jim wants it rough, Basher is repressed and Catholic), Basher spends the next week seducing his boyfriend.





	1. Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> For those who haven't read/have no desire to read "A Family Grew Around Me":  
> Jim adopted (read: found on the docks and decided to keep) a kiddo back in 2009. Basher slowly fell in love with both Jim and Evelyn. After lots of drama and resentment and the "Miss Me?" video popping up all over London, they're living together in Australia, still trying to navigate their relationship. I think that's the bare bones of what you need. If you're anything like me, you're just here for the sex. I appreciate that. Really, I do.
> 
>  For those who've followed "A Family Grew Around Me":  
> This is a separate story because it didn't really fit into the other fic. So, this is a sexy, melodramatic little detour. This takes place directly between Chapter 18 and 19. 
> 
> For all of you: JIM IS NOT OKAY. Like, he's got some serious consent issues, a total disregard for his sexual safety and his partner's, and has completely confused extreme "sensation" for "pleasure." And Basher is a good boyfriend who just wants to be fluffy and affectionate.
> 
> You've been warned. Basher is tooth-rottingly sentimental, and Jim is, like, just so fucked up.

_May 2015_

_Set after Basher and Evelyn return from Adler’s._

When I get home from disposing of Dr. Munoz’s body, it’s after midnight. I’ve made sure that no police reports were filed regarding Evelyn. It’d be a pity of MI-5 found us because of Jim killed the headmaster AFTER reporting his daughter missing. Jim will likely have to look over my work, check for anything that will give us away, but for now, he’s drunk and happy to have his little lady back. 

I peek into his room. Evelyn’s asleep by his side. Jim is tap-counting her fingers. He must sense me in the doorway, because he sits up, his hair wild and his eyes glassy. He stares at me with that obsessive intensity he has. 

It doesn’t scare me like it used to. 

“Everything okay, kitten?” 

He slides out of the bed, careful not to disturb our daughter. He motions me to follow him. He leads me to the loo off of his bedroom, the one in which he’d murdered Munoz less than twenty-four hours ago. I’ve cleaned up the blood but the spider-web cracks in the mirrors will need to be fixed in the morning. We’ll also need to burn the bath mat in front of the shower. 

My lungs burn with bleach and ammonia. “What is it?” I ask when he shuts the door behind me. 

He lunges, his mouth crashing against mine, the burn of alcohol still on his tongue and lips. He’d been nursing whiskey throughout the day, despite having his daughter back. He shoves me up against the door, gripping the collar of my shirt, pressing. Crushing me. 

Fierce, desperate sounds emanate from his throat, vibrating against my tongue. He reminds me of a wounded animal, terrified with nothing to lose, lashing out with abandon. I’m afraid he’s going to chip a tooth (mine or his), but he pulls back suddenly, slipping to his knees. 

“Whoa,” I say, grabbing at his head, trying to slow him. “Jim--” 

He glares up at me, roughly batting my hands away. “Shut up. God, your voice is annoying.” He tugs at my jeans and pants, bringing them down just enough that he has access to my cock. I groan, not out of arousal, but because I know I’m nowhere near an erection. 

“Jim, sweetheart--” My explanation is cut short by quick, clinical tugs at my cock. I firm up a bit as he continues to work me over, and when I’m half-mast, Jim takes no time at all to _fucking_ swallow me down. “Jesus.” 

I can’t even enjoy the sensation for a moment because I’m just in awe at how quickly and smoothly my cock disappears down his throat. His throat contracts around me, and that’s when the arousal kicks in. I think maybe I say something, a curse, a prayer, his name, but then he starts to bob his head in this frantic rhythm and my brain goes offline. 

The fantasy of fucking that cute little submissive girl at Adler’s starts to butt into my mind’s eye. I push it away. This is Jim. Jim is a man. Jim is my man. 

_Jim is choking around my cock._

_“He could almost pass for a victim, the way he chokes around an erection. He so loves to be choked. He’s particularly beautiful when he looks up at you with tears in those large black eyes.”_

Magnussen’s words ring in my ears and that greasy feeling begins to knock around my gut. The sounds Jim’s making doesn’t help. I grab his hair and pull him back, saliva beginning to drip down his chin. His red lips gleam in the harsh overhead light. In a split second, his eyes go from half-lidded to wide open and burning with rage. 

“Basher--” 

“Jim, you’ve been drinking all day--” 

“Shh, don’t wake Evelyn--” 

“--and you’ve been in a state for the last thirty-six hours--” 

“Don’t patronize me, Basher!” 

“Hey, calm down. I don’t--I don’t want you to do that.” 

He groans, rolling his eyes, but he stays on his knees. He goes to mouth at my flagging erection and growls when I jump away from the door, righting my trousers and getting zipped. “Basherrrrrr.” 

He turns, crawling towards me, face painted with flirtation and lust. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” 

“Jim!” 

The rage resurfaces so fast, I feel like I’ve got whiplash. “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” 

I stammer to answer. 

He takes a deep breath and turns on the charm again. “I give _great_ head, Tiger,” he purrs. 

I get on my knees so that we’re face to face. He slaps me when I go in to kiss him. “I don’t want to kiss you, you absolute scut!” he hisses. He slaps me again. I’m too shocked to react. “I’m trying to thank you!” 

I grab his wrists, fury making me squeeze harder than necessary. “You fuckin’ maniac! Don’t hit! Jesus, you’re a grown man; I shouldn’t have to say that.” 

He tries to jerk out of my grip but he can’t. 

“I don’t want to _make out_ , Sebastian. I want to suck you off.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“Some of the best sex I’ve had has stemmed from a state of intoxication.” 

“I don’t like--I don’t like the idea of you . . . hurting. Being hurt.” 

“Oh please. You murder people.” 

“Magnussen told me. About you. I don’t--that’s not how I want this to be.” 

“Such a sensitive soul,” he sneers. “I’m trying to show my appreciation but you have to play noble.” 

“I’m not playing anything!” He is so infuriating. I let him go. He gets to his feet and stalks to the door. “Where are you going?” 

“I literally have one interest right now. If you’re not going to humor me, there’s no point for me to sit on the floor of the loo while you wax romantic.” 

I know that this sounds so backward. If you’d told me five years ago that I’d turn down a blow job from someone I loved, I would’ve fucking killed you. But now, here I am, arguing with my loved one about sucking my dick. Somehow, too, I feel objectified. And maybe a little rejected? We’ve not slept together in a year and a half or more--but he’s ready to suck my dick, no other physical displays of affection, at one in the bloody morning. And he has no interest in even discussing this with me? 

“I’m not waxing romantic, you bastard. I’m trying to explain to you that your well-being is important to me.” 

“Basher, let’s be perfectly clear. I _like_ deepthroating a thick cock. I _want_ to choke until the tears come. Hell, that’s the tamest act I enjoy. You want to know the darker kinks I have? Huh?” 

“No. I don’t.” 

“I _love_ to be dryfucked. Can’t participate in that too often, because it takes a long time to heal and the effects can be permanent, but it’s _great_.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I paid Adler an obscene sum of money to completely incapacitate me, then beat me until I was unconscious. Difficult to do without hitting my face, but she’s a pro.” He’s delighting in my discomfort. 

“Jim, I don’t want to hear about any of that!” 

“I came to a couple of times, it’s all very hazy, but I remember the oversized strap-on she used. Feeling it split me open. And the sound. Do you know what that is, Bash? It’s a device that gets inserted--” 

I’m starting to shake. I don’t know if it’s anger that someone did that to him or that he won’t shut up. Maybe I’m sad that that’s what brings him physical pleasure. “Jim, I’m not kidding. Stop it. Now.” 

He steps closer to me, kneeling so that our noses nearly touch. He’s grinning like a maniac. “Would you like to know what Magnussen did? To me?” 

I grab his throat. I feel like I’m about to puke. He smirks at me as my hand tightens around his throat. 

“That’s much better isn’t it, Tiger?” he croaks, his eyes fixed on mine. 

Releasing him brings the annoyance back to his face. I stroke his throat, grabbing his arm before he can slap me again. What sort of fucked up relationship am I in? “Would you like to know what I want to do to you, James?” 

His dark eyes light up with cautious interest. He raises his eyebrow. 

“I wanna be good to you.” 

He snorts and in an instant, he’s gone. “You’re so boring, Basher.” 

“I do, though,” I insist as he opens the door to leave. 

“Well, I don’t want that, Tiger,” he snaps back before slamming the door. 

I stay on the floor, processing what he’s told me, imagining what might’ve happened to him to make him like this. There’s just . . . so many barriers between us. He’s kept me out of his recent illegal activities selling drugs. He’s kept me out of his past. And now he’s keeping me out of his bed because he wants me to . . . fuck, I can’t even imagine. Maybe it’s strange but murder and sex have always been distinctly different in my head. Chalk it up to the Catholic upbringing, but murder is business and sex is affection. The two don’t mesh. 

Do I settle for the hand-holding, late night snogging, and casual touches? Do I meet him where he is and do the sick things he wants? Do I settle for being Jim’s next bully? 

Jim Moriarty is not a good man. I know this. He’s not a well man, and I know this too. I think back to that Christmas he asked me to stay. _“I have no bargaining chip here, Bash. I have absolutely nothing I can give you. I’ll never be your prim little house husband. I have no favors to ask of you. I am literally coming to you empty-handed, hoping that . . . hoping that you’ll settle for an illusion. Because I can never give you the reality you want.”_

Something deep inside me aches. 

_~~_

__  


It’s after breakfast. I’m cleaning up, Evelyn’s in her room building something, and Jim’s sitting at the kitchen table, in utter denial that he has a hangover. Apparently, we’re acting like last night didn’t happen.

Jim stares at Holy Pete’s card, deciphering whatever language or code it’s written in with ease. He shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I suppose I should give him a call.” 

“If we’re gonna keep Eurus away from our kid, yeah, you should.” 

He leans back in his chair and taps his cheek thoughtfully. I put the last of the dishes away and take a seat across from him at the kitchen table. We sit in silence for awhile. “Pete says you’re back in the drug trade.” 

Jim snorts. “Does that bother you?” 

“Bit, yeah.” 

He rolls his eyes and sneers, “Why? It’s not effecting Evelyn. I blend everything at the office when I’m bored.” 

“That’s not what I’m bothered about, you arse.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“We’re partners.” 

He gives me a taunting smile. “Oooh, are we now? I thought _partner_ was too mature a label for us?” 

God, he’s such an arsehole. Seriously. “Listen here, you little fuck--” 

He cackles. “Oooh, do you mean _partners in crime_?” 

I kick him beneath the table. “Oi, knock it off!” 

“Are we Bonnie and Clyde?” 

I stare blankly at him while he laughs. “Lemme know when you’re done being a prick so we can have a serious chat.” 

“Like a business meeting?” 

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!” 

“My tiger’s getting so big, he wants to have meetings and be partners.” 

“James Mori-fuckin’-arty!” 

“You’re a bodyguard, Basher, not a partner in crime.” 

“You have no one but me, prat, so I’d say you need someone who’s got more than you’re back.” 

He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “And what else do you want, Mr. Moran? You want a _raise_ from the boss?” 

“I don’t know why I thought I could have a grown-up conversation with you, you absolute man-child!” I storm off into the den. I should probably go for a run anyway. 

While I’m searching checking the charge on my mobile, Jim strolls up and leans on the sofa, blocking my path to the door. He’s still grinning like I’m the most amusing little idiot in Australia. If we weren’t an item, I’d beat his skull in. I still might. He jerks the headphones out of my ears. 

“What?” I demand. 

“You have to know that you’re a complete moron. I can’t run a business with an idiot.” 

“I have an honours degree from Eton and a Master’s from Oxford, you arse.” 

“Well then. That completely changes my mind,” he says sarcastically. 

“I’m not an idiot. I may not be as smart as you are, but I’m not only good for murder and being intimidating. But that’s not even what I’m talking about.” 

He lets out an exaggerated groan. “Fine. God, you’re whiny. What do you want?” 

That goes over well. I grab his shoulders, absolutely gobsmacked. “ _I’M_ WHINY?” 

He rolls his eyes again. “Jesus.” 

“YOU BROKE OUR GODDAMN HOUSE IN TEXAS!” 

“That’s an exaggeration.” 

“You’re an exaggeration! You’re just one giant Irish hyperbole! What do I have to do to be deemed bloody goddamn worthy of the Great Professor James Moriarty, eh? Jump out the window and _fly_? Break the bloody laws of physics for you? Split an atom? Seriously, what will it take, you bastard?” 

His eyes are wide, like he honestly didn’t see that coming. “Worthy?” he repeats back. “You live with me. You raise my daughter. You sedate me and make sure I eat.” 

“I’m not an extension of you, Jim!” 

“I’m confused. Then why would you consider yourself my business partner?” 

“It’s not just _business_. It’s not just co-parenting. We’re . . . Jim, I love you.” He pales. I don’t pause because I don’t want him to respond. I’m afraid of what his response might be. “And you don’t have to love me, that’s fine. I don’t expect a psychopath like you to love anyone, _but_ I think it’s reasonable for me to expect respect and candidness, yeah? So if you’re doing something illegal, don’t you think I should know about it? Don’t you think I should know what you’re up to ? Because we’re partners? Because we’re going through this together?” 

His eyes are the size of moons and his face is just as white. “Doing life together like a couple?” He tries to sound mocking, but the bite isn’t in his voice anymore. 

I take a deep breath and count to ten. “You have to be honest with me, Jim. Not just for safety reasons, but because I need to trust you.” 

“You can’t trust me.” His voice sounds like his soul has completely stepped out of his body. “That’s why I need you here all the time.” 

Something about that statement and the sentiment behind it makes my chest tighten. “So, consider this, kitten. If for every action there’s an opposite but equal reaction, wouldn’t it make sense that if you needed me or something from me, I might also need you or something from you? Not in the same way, but just as much?” 

Jim’s eyes bounce all around the room, looking everywhere but in my direction. He’s still clutching the earbuds. 

I take another deep breath. Taking the earbuds, I kiss his cheek and tell him, “I’m gonna go for a run. Think about what I said, yeah?” 

~~

I’m stepping out of the shower, much more relaxed after my run, and I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Jim sitting on the counter by the sink, in his silk pyjamas. “How can--” 

“JESUS JIM!” 

“I thought you heard me come in.” 

“Well I did not.” 

He stares at my cock. I grab my towel and wrap it around me as quick as I possibly can. “Did you come in here solely to be a pervert?” 

“No. I came in here to ask you a question.” 

“Well, ask it and then get out.” 

“You remember we’ve had sex, right? None of that,” he motions at the whole of my body, “is new to me.” 

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I much prefer consensual ogling, not being surprised when I get out of the shower!” 

“Ugh. Catholics.” 

“All right, get out.” 

“No.” 

“Yes!” 

“How can you claim to “love” me when you resent me?” It’s a surprisingly sincere question. “And to follow up, how can you claim to “love” me when I can’t give you what you want?” 

Oh God, my head is too swimmy from the hot shower to answer that. I shrug, shaking my head. “I dunno, kitten. I don’t have an answer right now.” 

He licks his lips, his brow furrowed. “I don’t think you do. Love me, that is. No, listen, I’m not fishing for assurances. I just don’t think that you do “love” me. I think it’s a type of Stockholm Syndrome. You’re stuck with me because of your paternal feelings for Evelyn, so you reconcile that by making yourself believe that you have romantic feelings for me.” 

I groan. “Jim, I’m too tired to explain to you why you’re wrong, but you’re wrong, all right? C’mere.” 

“No, I’m not going to hug you when you’re soaking wet.” He slips off the counter and leaves the room. 

~~

It’s a surprisingly hot afternoon for Australian Autumn when the idea comes to me. My mobile’s screen goes black, and I’m too lazy to get up to charge the damn thing. I look up to study my weird little family, to see if anyone’s available to interact. On the opposite side of the sofa, Jim is flipping back and forth between books and his notes, and Evelyn has dozed in the armchair whilst reading. 

A week has passed since the abduction, since I’ve returned to my makeshift family, since Jim and I came to blows about the nature of our relationship. We’ve fallen back into a pattern, a cozy one, a domestic one. And I find that I’ve desperately missed it. It’s comforting. 

On a whim, my arm stretches across the back of the sofa so that the tips of my fingers ghost over the back of Jim’s neck. He side-eyes me, but keeps working. Since he doesn’t brush me off, I scoot marginally closer to massage the nape of his neck. 

This isn’t a _new_ thing for us, the soft petting, affectionate touches, but it’s the first time that I’m paying attention, wondering how many other people have been gentle with him. Who else has lovingly touched my Jim? Has anyone? Does he know what it’s like to be wanted for no other reason than love? 

_Who the fuck am I?_

My eyes flick over to ensure Evelyn’s asleep, then I snuggle up to Jim, my lips brushing his ear. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t put up a fuss. “Hey kitten?” 

“Hm?” 

“I’m gonna seduce you.” 

He cracks his neck, looking up to stare straight ahead. “Are you, now?” 

“I’ve gotta plan.” Blatant lie on my end. 

He frowns, mildly disgusted. “Good luck with that.” He resumes his work. 


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scent // Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turned out less sensual than I wanted. Next chapter will hopefully be sexier. I thought writing about sense of smell would be sexy but instead it's just really hard and unsexy.

A week later

Day One: Smell / Home

Seduction, I realize, is a lot like hunting. Not to brag, but I've bedded my share women. All ages, sizes, races, religions, etc. Hell, it's what ultimately got me kicked out of the British Army. (Of course, on paper it doesn't say, "Slept with Major General's eighteen-year-old daughter" just that I tortured prisoners of war and killed endangered species for their fur.)

I'm a great hunter of women. Hunting a man for non-murderous reasons is new, though. I'm out of my element. 

So, I break it down. 

_One, be where the prey is._

Well, we live together, so no problem there. I’ll start at home. Where he nests. Acclimatize him to the idea that I _will_ be good to him, whether he likes it or not, the pervert. I’ll do that by starting where he feels safest, then spread out. Insidiously invade every aspect of his life. Purposefully. Intentionally. I have to be careful though. 

_Two, don’t do anything to frighten prey away._

I can’t start with anything too extreme. Frightened prey either darts or attacks. It’s pretty rare that Jim Moriarty darts, and the fucker knows his way around a Bowie knife. 

_Three, know how to lure desired prey._

And that’s where the seduction lies. Ultimately, I can make myself known in his flat, in his bedroom, in his life. Evelyn does it all the time without even trying. I can avoid situations and discussion that put him off, make him uncomfortable or trigger that KILL SHERLOCK obsession. That’s what I’ve been doing since Holmes returned. 

Aside from the scrawny addict’s head, what does Jim want? What can I offer him? Besides sadomasochistic sex, of course. 

I develop my plan over the course of the following week, accumulating what I need in secret. If Jim notices, he doesn't say anything. 

The hunt starts with sandalwood. 

Jim uses dried lavender in the den and his bedroom to calm himself. When the KILL SHERLOCK obsession threatens to spiral out of control, he uses an oil diffuser to intensify the smell through the flat. 

Truthfully, I don't believe any of that aromatherapy nonsense, but changing the fragrances in his life is a subtle way to ease him into the idea of being intentionally pursued. (Don't frighten your prey.) 

Sandalwood, apparently, is both an erotic and calming scent. So, while he sleeps I replace the lavender oil in his diffuser with sandalwood oil and switch it on. I remove the dried lavender around the flat and seal it a plastic bag. He'll grow accustom to the scent in his sleep, I reason. He'll know that I've changed something of course, know the reason behind it. He'll probably make some smart-arsed comment about it, and I'll let it slide. 

I've purchased those expensive Swiss and French lotions and soaps that he used before Sherlock Holmes reemerged, before the depression overtook him. They've subtle fragrances, but they're distinct. The smell of the lotion (soft vanilla, something floral) takes me back to the years before I loved him, when I worked for him, but had no idea what he even looked like. Somehow, that scent means even more now, because it’s evolved as our association evolved. I can suddenly remember when I noticed the smell of baby powder permeating from him. I hadn’t commented on it at the time--I honestly don’t think I even noticed it. But now, in retrospect it seems so shocking. The smell of baby powder coupled with this sweet, somewhat spicy scent as I stood behind him, preparing to assassinate General Shan from the roof of another building. It meant nothing then. It’s endearing now. 

I replace his Aveeno hand lotion and face moisturizer with his old (ridiculously expensive) brand. His department store shampoo and conditioner get replaced as well. And lastly, I put the hairgel behind the mirror in front of the sink so that when he goes to retrieve the floss, he'll see it. 

And then when morning comes, I wait. I brew coffee, letting the scent mingle with the sandalwood. Jim prefers tea in the mornings, but the smell of tea doesn't permeate the air the way coffee does. And first and foremost, I want Jim to be made aware of his seduction through scent. Scent is less intrusive, easier to adjust to. 

And really, the whole purpose of this exercise is to alert Jim that he's being seduced. That I'm purposeful in what I'm doing. That he is the center of my focus, and that this is safe. And that he has the option to say no. 

I hear his barefeet pad from his bedroom to the kitchen. I look up from my tablet to see him glowering at me. I smile. "Morning." 

"What if I was allergic to sandalwood?" he asks, crossing his arms. 

"Then I'd take you to hospital." 

His eyes narrow further. 

"Put the lavender back." 

I shake my head in the negative. "Coffee?" 

" _No_ ," he says spitefully. He storms back to his bedroom and slams the door. 

I wait a moment or two, knowing that he'll be turning on the water for a shower any moment now. The pipes start to hiss with running water. A bit of time passes before he storms back into the kitchen, buck naked, half dry, the shampoo in his grip. "Is this supposed to impress me?" he snaps. 

I shrug. "Just thought you might like something nice, kitten." 

His eyes blaze. "Don't 'kitten' me.” He hurls the bottle, smacking right in the forehead. “I know what you're playing at." 

_Yeah, it’s not a secret, you brat._ He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I’m not going to let him win. Leaving the bottle of the floor, I take a long swig of black coffee. Gotta keep calm. Don't scare him away. He'll either dart or attack. Slowly, I get to my feet, trying to regain my patience. Jim is such an infuriating little shit with his infectious rage. I pick the shampoo, then hold out one of my hands, palm up. “Lemme show you something. Gimme your hand.” 

He looks at my palm, growls at me, teeth bared and all, and stomps back to the bathroom. I follow him this time, catching the door before it slams. He doesn't acknowledge me. He enters the shower, slamming the fogged glass door. I crack the door just enough to put the shampoo inside, and then I take a seat on the counter to quietly finish my coffee. 

“You can’t _manipulate_ me, Basher.” 

I don’t answer. The steam of the shower begins to smell like the new shampoo and soap and I can't help but smirk. The smell of milky vanilla and something citrusy and spicy fills the bathroom, sticking to the newly replaced mirrors and the tile floors. I let it wash over me, taking me back to a few years ago when he lived in Texas and I would visit him between layovers. 

I remember this one perfect moment where I sat on the steps of the back porch, watching Evelyn dart among the millions of fireflies lighting up the dark blue evening. Somehow, the flickers and sheer number of them intensified the humidity. Evelyn was pretending she was amassing their powers (what a firefly's power _is_ , I don't know), warning me not to come near her lest her powers "evaporate" me. (She’d been learning about water evaporating and clouds and so on and so that’s what permeated her vocabulary that evening.) Jim joined us a moment later, handing me a cold glass tumbler of whiskey with a single ice cube floating at the top. At the time, I was surprised by the act, but I didn't say anything. We sat quietly, watching our daughter run barefoot, catching fireflies. I hadn't realized that the scents of the evening weren't entirely just the dew and freshly cut grass or the lingering heat on the concrete. I hadn't realized how much of that moment, and other perfect moments like it, had been laced with the scent of Jim's myriad of luxury products. 

How that scent had been indicative of Jim’s contentment. And that changed when Sherlock returned. It was a battle to get him to shower, to sleep, to eat, to drink. I drugged him when he was hysterical; I coddled him when he was marginally compliant. The scent that had marked a happy fatherhood, a happy partnership had morphed into something else in November of 2013. Sherlock's return really had ruined our life together. One day, I would make it up to Jim. For now, we had to lay low. 

"I could make you some tea if you asked nicely," I tell him when he slinks out of the shower, still soaking wet. Ah. So that's why the bathmat is always dripping wet. Why can't the little shit just towel off before he gets out? _No, it’s fine,_ I tell myself. _Let it go._

He dries his face and torso, then wraps the towel around his waist. 

"You might put sandalwood in it," he snips back. His spine stiffens when he spots the smaller bottle of lotion in place of his Aveeno. "Basher, you're embarrassing yourself." 

He freezes when I slide up behind him, tracing the length of his arms to reach his hands. He smells like the Jim I fell in love with now. Subtly fragrant, ridiculously expensive. I gently cup his hands in mine and turn them so that his palms are up. The cuticles are split and there are scabs on the heels and tips. "This is what I was trying to show you before you so rudely threw a fit in the kitchen." I dispense the lotion in the dip of his palm. I feel his eyes staring daggers at me in the mirror, but I ignore him. Instead, I work the goop into his damp skin. "You got back into that habit of washing your hands to the point that they bleed while I was gone. I thought the change in product might help." It's not entirely a lie. 

In the mirror, I can see his eyes are now focused on where my hands are on his. "I was fine while you were gone," he says. His voice is quiet. I work the lotion over the length of each individual finger, careful to avoid the sores where he’s picked the skin or it’s been caught on something or it’s just split from the dryness. One. Two. Especially careful here. Poor Jim. I apply a little more lotion to his middle and ring fingers. Poor, poor, obsessive Jim with his destructive coping methods. Five. 

"You were fine. You kept it together. Everything's in order and Evelyn's ok, so I know you did fine." I start in on his other hand, gentle with the sore red slices around his nails and the scabs on this palm. I massage in the lotion until the edges of the wounds don't catch, until they feel softer and smoother. "But you cope with stress by scrubbing your hands into oblivion," I tease. I give his hand a squeeze. "This'll make them nice and soft again. Less sore, too.” 

"I was fine while you were gone," he says again. 

I rest my head on his bare, wet shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. I can smell the new shampoo and soap on him, as well as the faint scent of his skin. "No one said you weren't. I just don't like to see you hurt." 

I let him go to grab his robe from the counter and wrap it around his shoulders. He continues to stare at his hands, fingers brushing over the damaged skin. 

“Do you want some tea?” I ask him again. 

“Don’t put anything in it. I don’t care how _sexy_ you think it might be.” 

Jim doesn’t bitch about the hair gel, but he doesn’t express gratitude about it either. Instead, when he comes out of the loo, smelling and looking like the Professor of the Underground, he asks, “You couldn’t get the dye too?” He motions to the gray around his temples. “Or it just never occurred to you?” 

I debate dousing the ingrate with the boiling water in the kettle. “If you don’t want it,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone even, “I’ll be glad to use it.” 

He takes his seat at the table. Something in his posture feels more like Moriarty. “Hah, pearls before swine.” 

“Dick.” 

He smirks at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his face looks brighter, the skin around his eyes more supple, less wrinkly. He’s experimentally rubbing his hands together, like he’s trying to get used to the feeling of moisturized, resilient skin. “Tea,” he orders. 

I give him a challenging look. 

“You want to seduce me, don’t you?” 

“Manipulative little fucker.” 

“What’s seduce mean?” Evelyn asks. 

Neither of us had heard her come in. We exchange wide-eyed glances. “You’re the professor,” I tell him before backing out of the kitchen. 

~~

While Jim is at the university and Evelyn is at school, I get a shower. I'm tempted to use Jim's fancy-schmancy soaps and hair products, but, again, I'm trying to lure my prey to me. Part of hunting wild boar was using heat pheromones to bring them closer. 

_Great idea. I'll pee in Jim's bed._

I don't, of course, but after my shower, while my hair is still sopping wet and my aftershave still stings, I flop onto the center of Jim's bed and sleep. If he notices the change in scent at all, he doesn't say anything when he goes to bed.


	3. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sound // Voicemail

Rain _taptaptaps_ against the window, muting the morning noise of the world outside the flat. I've just come in from my morning run. The damp has seeped into my skin and penetrated my bones and the sound of the rain beating against the structure of our home only worsens the chill. It's a very London morning. I hate it.

The flat still smells like sandalwood. Jim didn't replace the oil with his dried lavender while I slept. He didn't turn off his diffuser. I take this as a good sign. He's not playing along with the hunt but he's not putting a stop to it either. The expensive bath products have remained in the shower and on the counter in the loo. He's also slept through the night, a first since I returned from Adler's. (The paranoid, protective Papa in me is acutely aware of every sound in the flat, especially at night, so I know when Jim's up at 3:00 in the morning to check on Evelyn, to check on me, to make sure the door's are locked.)

Sometimes, hunters have to lure their prey (usually poultry) with sounds. I don't hunt birds that often, and frankly, I'm not big on hunting anything in the cervidae family. It never seems quite fair, hunting something that's already on the bottom of the food chain. Not that I haven't done it, of course, but this tactic's particular introduction was a bit harder to concoct and enact.

Once I've changed into dry clothes and slipped into a sweatshirt (because I am fucking freezing, why the fuck does Jim keep the flat so cold?), I creep into Jim's room, laying atop the covers of his bed, careful not to wake him. His alarm will go off soon, and I'll silence it as soon as it does, and then I'll begin phase two of the hunt.

I watch him sleep, pleased to see that he's not grinding his teeth, that his mouth is open and he's taking deep, even breaths. I want to brush back his hair that sleep and hair gel has spiked into every direction. He looks like a cactus. He'll probably get bitchy about my presence. I have to brace myself for the inevitable backlash. Jim is bizarre, really, just a massive walking contradiction. He wants attention but he doesn't want attention. He wants me around but he wants me to leave him alone. He wants expensive things but he doesn't want to be given expensive things. "I'm so changeable," is his explanation, but I can't help but wonder if the little shit isn't just insecure.

Oh well. If there's one thing Jim hates, it's me trying to understand him.

_Bzzzzt_

I reach for his phone just as he does. He groans a little when he puts together that I'm beside him. "Just hit snooze," he mumbles, snuggling deeper beneath the sheets.

My lips next to his ear, I say gently, "Kitten, it's time to wake up."

"Snooze," he repeats.

"Poor sleepy Jim," I breathe against the shell of his ear. He grumbles and throws the comforter over his head. "Don't know why you're so sleepy, you slept for ten hours."

He throws the blankets off to roll over and glower at me. "How long have you been in my bed?"

"Not long. Five minutes."

"What happened to your conviction about consensual ogling?"

"I wasn't ogling you. I was waking you up."

"Well, you failed. I'm going back to sleep."

I stay another seven minutes, listening as his soft, even breathing resumes. When the seven minutes are up, I get up to open his curtain, the sound of rain pelting the window intensifying. He groans again as the gray light of the overcast sky blankets his face. I kneel down beside his bed. "Come on, handsome, I got you a nice surprise while I was out this morning."

"It better be hair dye."

Of course, it's not hair dye. It's a cinnamon roll. Still in his robe (and sopping wet, Jesus Christ, why can't he just dry off before he gets out of the goddamn shower?!), he walks into the kitchen and shoots me an annoyed glance when he sees it. The scent of the luxe bath products wafts over to me. Again, a good sign, even if he is being a little bitch. "Did you get one for Evelyn too?" he snaps.

Jim is very particular about Evelyn's diet. She can only have sugary breakfasts on special occasions and Sundays. It's Tuesday. But Evelyn's sweet tooth is a force to be reckoned with, and there's nothing as pride-diminishing as losing a fight with a seven-year-old. "Of course I got her one. I'm not an idiot."

The rain continues the rapping against the window. In my head, I keep hearing Vincent Price's rendition of _The Raven_.

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_  
_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._  
_“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—_  
_Only this and nothing more.”_

Jim holds up the cinnamon roll, unimpressed. "Is this part of the seduction as well? How ever did you keep the girls away? Calorie-heavy treats for breakfast? " Condescension oozes from his lips.

_Stop being such a dick, Jim, and eat your damn cinnamon roll._

"No," I answer with a smile, even though I want to smash his ungrateful face with a plate. "That's Thursday." I lean across the table, using a lower register to say, "I just like watching you lick the icing off the top, savoring every little bit of the sweetness."

"I don't appreciate euphemisms in the kitchen, Basher." His ears have turned pink, though.

I lean in closer, feeling smug. "It's not a euphemism. I legitimately like seeing you enjoy things. You have a very . . . " what's the word? Sweet? Cute? Lovely? These are not words that I would use to describe Jim. ". . . endearing smile when you like something. It's very hyper-focused. What I love about you, Jim, is that you're never in the middle about anything. And when you grin after licking all the icing off a cupcake or a cinnamon roll or a doughnut, it's just _adorable_. All mischievous and pleased with yourself. Like you know you shouldn't've done it, but you did, and you don't give a damn. I like that look on you."

He averts his eyes, his cheeks reddening as I talk. I think he likes it when I talk in a lower register. I think maybe that's why he got fixated on Sherlock Holmes: that deep, rumbly voice. Probably some weird primitive biological thing. I remember something about deep voices being tied to sexual fitness in uni. Guess I'll have to factor that into today's trap-laying.

God, when he blushes, though, I just want him. It's hard to express, really, because it's not like, I want to just fuck him -- I want to hold him and kiss him and provide that emotional and physical intimacy that I did with girlfriends (and whores) before him. I keep the desire to touch at bay, though. That's for Friday.

Evelyn stomps into the kitchen, still mad at me for waking her up. (I don't know why--we do this every morning. It's not like it's a surprise.) I live with two drama queens who, for whatever reason, I positively yearn to appease.

"Good morning, Evey."

She glares at me, looking just like Jim. "I'm ignoring you," she tells me. She gasps when she sees Jim taking a bite of his cinnamon roll. "WHY DOES HE HAVE ONE? IT'S NOT SUNDAY!"

Through a mouthful, Jim says, "Papa didn't want to bring you one."

I kick him under the table. "That is a lie, Evey."

"So I have one?" she asks in a soft, dangerous tone.

"Yes, you have one. Because I went out in the rain to get one for you."

She flashes this precious, angelic smile and wraps her arms around me. "Thank you, Papa. You're the best Papa in the world." I know that she's manipulating me, but I enjoy hearing it, so I don't correct her. "Can I have coffee, too?" Ah, the purpose of the manipulation.

"Absolutely not," Jim answers.

"Of course, baby girl." Jim shoots me a murderous look. I can't pretend not to notice it but I can't stop grinning at his irritation.

She purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips. "I am _not_ a baby."

"You're absolutely right," I agree.

"And I can have coffee?"

"No!"

I give Jim a pointed look, lowering my voice again. "I told her she could, kitten."

He stiffens, looking incensed, but says nothing, so I get up to make coffee for Evelyn and myself.

I lay on his bed while he finishes getting ready for work, mostly to annoy him, but also to make sure his bed maintains my scent. I want my presence to be familiar and safe for my Jim. Which is weird because I also want to piss him off.

The scent of expensive hairgel follows in his wake as he whisks from the toilet to the full-length mirror to look himself over. I'm pleased to see his vanity returning. He seems more like himself. He tosses a crumpled piece of paper at me. "Make yourself useful."

_Wella Koleston Permanent Creme Hair Color Darkest Brown Natural_

"What's this?"

"Dye. If you're going to obsess about my grooming habits, you might as well go all the way."

I ball the paper back up and toss it back at him. He shoots me a dirty look over his shoulder, then continues fixing his hair in the mirror. I pad over to him, careful not to touch him. I hover behind him, mere centimeters away from his neck, my mouth nearly brushing his ear. "I told you, I like that bit of gray."

He can't hide the shiver that runs down his spine. "Don't overdo the "seductive voice" bit, Bash. How will you get your way if I get desensitized?" He's trying so hard to be snarky. It's precious.

"Guess I'll have to use it wisely, won't I, kitten?" In the mirror, I can see the blush creeping from his cheeks to his neck. I look over his reflection and let loose a small, pleased sound. "I do, though. I like the gray. Makes you look intellectual. And then I can say, 'Oh look, there's my oh-so-smart boyfriend. Isn't he handsome with his black doe eyes and cheeky grin?' I'm tempted to keep you home so no one snatches you up." I flash a lascivious grin at his reflection.

He leans back against me, a tiny sound coming from his mouth and something instantly snaps. I growl and snake my arms around his waist, pressing him firmly against me. I kiss the back of his neck, feeling the hairs rise and his body shudder. I let him go, removing myself from temptation. Jim smirks at me. "It's been, what, 30 hours since you started this game, and I've seduced you in less than five minutes."

 _Prick. I'm not the one quivering and blushing bright red._ I don't let him see my aggravation. Instead, I give him an exaggerated pout. "Be nice, Jim. I've never had to seduce a man before. It's my first time."

He swallows, lips closed tightly. I crawl back into his bed. "I'll see you when you get home, kitten."

~~

10:55 a.m.

_"Are you ignoring me, kitten? It's rude to ignore my call. I wonder if you're trying to upset me, see if you can get me to do some of those terrible things you paid Adler to do to you. Oh well, no matter.  I'll never do what she or Magnussen did to you._

_"I've been laying in your bed, listening to the rain fall. I hate rainy days. We should move to Rajasthan, Jim. It's warm and dry._

_"You know what I've been thinking about? That time in Sweden. I didn't know I loved you then. I wish I could've comforted you better. There's something very romantic about cuddling while snow falls outside. I could've brought you home from the hospital and laid you out on the sofa. You were so tired, exhausted from worrying. Who could blame you? Could've told you everything would be okay. Evelyn was safe. Kissed you properly._

_"I've also been thinking about that night in Texas, too. It was before Sherlock came back, before I had to fight for your affection. It was nice, pulling you into my lap, feeling the weight of you against my thighs and my cock. Chasing your tongue with mine. If I'd known how sensitive your nipples were then, I would've toyed with them all night. Maybe we can try again tonight, kitten._

_"I'll pull you into my lap and kiss you and tease your nipples until your hard and then maybe I'll try to go down on you. I've never performed oral sex on a man. But I want to, on you. Just you. I want to make you whimper and squirm. Not in pain, though. I want to make you feel good all over, Jim. I want to be good to you, kitten. Let me? Please?"_

__~~__

12:32 p.m.

_"Me again, kitten. I guess you're doing a presentation. Or you've got your phone on silent. Or you're ignoring me. Tsk, tsk. Don't tease your Tiger."_

_"I've been thinking of you for most of the day. Dozing in your bed. Thinking of you. Maybe I was dreaming, even. And I've got a confession to make. I've been very naughty, touching myself thinking of that time we had sex. Specifically, how you masturbated, so frustrated that I was going so slow, so gently. I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. I had to pin you down so you'd behave. You should let me handle you, kitten. It'd be agonizingly slow. That's how I touch myself, you know. Bringing a certain level of self-discipline to masturbation can do wonders, sweetheart. I'd show if you'd let me. I'll see you when you get home, love."_

~~

1:43 p.m.

_"I've been hard on and off for the last two hours. Maybe I'll actually come on your bed. But then I'd have to change the sheets. I hate doing that._

_"I've been reading about prostate stimulation, since you won't return any of my calls. I've been wondering if that's something you enjoy, or if you just enjoy painful penetration. I'd like to take you over my lap and experiment. See if all this nonsense about multiple male orgasms has any truth to it. Just gently massage you from the inside. Nothing rough, of course. You'd probably bitch the whole time. I want to be gentle with you, Jim. The thought of making you come over and over again is very appealing. Would you let me, kitten? Would you let me be gentle with you inside and out, over and over again?"_

~~

"Evelyn just told me she's too old for bedtime books." I flop down in the arm chair, feeling dazed. "She's seven."

Jim frowns. "It's probably that Jenny girl in her class. She told Evelyn she was too old to be sleeping with her parents, even if she did have a bad dream."

"I'll fucking murder that kid."

"You were in there a while, though."

"Yeah, I told her she had to read to me so that I could get to sleep. So, I just learned about rats and the black plague."

"That was clever of you."

I think that's the first time Jim's ever given me a sincere compliment. It makes me smile. My guts feel all warm and gooey. It's cliched and stupid, but it's true nonetheless. "Is she too old, though? At what age do we stop doing bedtime reading?"

"According to recent studies, eleven."

 _Thank God._ I like our nightly routine of bedtime science books and the occasional fairy tale. I don't want to impede her growth, of course, but I don't want to rush it either. My sweet disaster-waiting-to-happen baby girl. "Well Jenny can go fuck herself. Just 'cause her parents have given up on her useless arse doesn't mean she has to bully Evelyn."

Jim laughs at that. I feel his eyes on me. Waiting.

Unfortunately, I will be disappointing him, at least somewhat. Like I said, _touch_ is for Friday, and it's only Tuesday night. I grab the remote from the coffee table, turning on the playlist I titled "For Jim."

Diana Krall's "Peel Me a Grape" is the most Jim song I've ever heard. There's a chance that I'm projecting, but he can be just as bratty and demanding as our daughter, and a song about pampering, accompanied by mostly bass and a piano is much in tune with my ridiculous boyfriend. But I think some of my truth spills into the song.

_Cut me a rose, make my tea with the petals Just hang around, pick up the tab._ _Never out think me, just mink me Polar bear rug me, don't bug me New Thunderbird me, you heard me_

He turns and puts his feet on the sofa so that he's looking right at me. "If you must know, I couldn't take your calls because I was meeting with grantors," he offers out of the blue.

I smirk. "So you did get my voicemails."

"Yes. Should I change my linens?"

"Already did." My answer is intended to be suggestive.

"You are disgusting."

"But infinitely more relaxed than you." I wink at him.

We're silent for a long moment. I can't explain it, but I can tell that he wants me to make a move. I think if I asked him, he'd let me take him to bed. Or at least make out for a little bit. But this doesn't end with me asking; it ends with him asking me. With his permission to be lovingly and gently touched. I want him to legitimately want my kindness, love, and all the saccharine feelings I have for him. In other words, I don't want him to settle for sweet carresses and intimate kisses because he's feeling randy. I want him to crave being handled properly. Sweetly. Like a lover, not a tool for sexual climax.

I feel sick again as the question of who made him like this bounces around my head.

The Platters' "Twilight Time" is up next. I move from the armchair to the sofa, close to him, but not touching. "You know something, kitten?"

His face is starting to pink again. His eyes are half-closed. It almost breaks me, but I stand my ground. "Hm?"

"I really missed you while I was gone."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. I thought having my old life back would be great, but you weren't there and Evelyn wasn't there, and I hated it. I worried, too. Worried that you weren't eating or that you weren't sleeping or that you would go after Sherlock on your own and get yourself killed. But you were fine without me."

He barely opens his mouth, and I think maybe he'll contradict me. He starts to pick at a scab on his palm, evidence that he wasn't "fine." He had to resort to old, damaging habits. But we all do that, don't we? When things get rough, we fall back into bad habits because they bring us temporary comfort. I drank and smoked _a lot_ while I was at Irene's. I can't fault him for it. He did well, considering.

"Don't do that, sweetheart."

His hands drop to his side.

"I love you, Jim."

He sighs. I don't know what it means. I have to be okay with that. I have to be okay with Jim not loving me because he's Jim. It's a miracle that he loves Evelyn; I can't expect more.

"I love you, and I missed you, and I'm glad to be back with you," I confess. I don't intend for sadness to linger in my words, but it does. I try to offer him a sincere smile, but I'm starting to feel blue. "Good night, handsome."

Once I'm settled in my bed, Jim texts me: "I'm glad you're back too."


	4. Day Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sight // Public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED 11/21: FANART FROM THE LOVELY [HIPPANO](http://hippano.tumblr.com)
> 
> Jim probably seems (and is) a little out of character here. I apologize for that. Andrew Scott and Mark Gatiss have both commented on Moriarty's loneliness, and so that's where this is coming from. Moriarty never explicitly says he's lonely or acts particularly lonely, so you have to wonder what other feelings he's not in touch with. I don't know. I'm probably romanticizing him too much, but the reason he gets quiet so often in this fic or blushy is because Basher is hitting nerves about Jim's solitude. 
> 
> Also, as I was writing this, I was like, "Damn, why does this seem so familiar?" I'll tell you why. [Because Tammany's story "Second Flush."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976114) I accidentally shamelessly stole the idea of "being paid attention to as a source of eroticism" from that fic. So. Go read her fic, it's really sexy and fun.

**I commissioned[Hippano](http://hippano.tumblr.com) to do an art and it's amazing. **

I keep up the aromatherapy bit, replenishing the diffuser and even adding a few vases of sandalwood stick diffusers in other rooms in the flat. I wake Jim in the morning with soft words and a deep voice and play light jazz while he breakfasts and Evelyn screams about waking up. (Seriously, child, every goddamn morning?!) I compliment him until he blushes. Originally, I'd planned to spend the morning in my boxers to give Jim a rise (no pun intended), but with Evelyn around, it didn't seem appropriate. And maybe nudity is a bit too obvious at this stage in the game. I'm seducing him, not hurling myself at him.

The idea for flowers came last week while I was walking Evelyn to school.

_"What do you think would make Daddy happy?" I asked her._

_"Me." Well, at least she's secure in the knowledge that she's loved._

_"Besides that."_

_"I don't know. Ice cream."_

_"No that makes you happy."_

_"Well, my teacher's boyfriend brings her flowers sometimes, but it's probably too late for that."_

_"Why is it too late?"_

_"You already have a kid," she told me, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't bring flowers when you have a kid!"_

_"Is that how it works?"_

_"Yup. A boy brings you flowers and then you have sex and then you have a baby."_

_I hate that Jim's already given her the sex talk, but whatever. He thinks he knows best. I'd rather her find out about sex the old-fashion way, at recess with older kids with lad mags. Well, maybe not with lad mags. How did Carrie find out about sex? It certainly wasn't from our parents._

_"I never brought your Daddy flowers."_

_"That's probably what's wrong with him." Her tone was so matter-of-fact, I couldn't help but laugh. She gave me a cool look and continued on. "That's my diagnosis."_

I'd had a long, painful conversation with the florist the following day. All part of the prep work of the hunt, I suppose. Usually, though, the prep work is packing, checking the weather and winds, and so on. Not explaining to the snooty mini-van mom that I'm trying to seduce my boyfriend. (At one point, she thought I was trying to drug Jim through flowers. I'm not always great at explaining what I need.)  The florist warned me to never come back. She's not proud of this "piece." 

Jim is very surprised when he flips on the lights to his office and sees me in his chair, my feet propped up on his desk. He looks like he could murder me. It's just for a second though, because as soon as his brain registers the Zegna suit and LK Bennett shoes, he's baffled. "Why on Earth are you not wearing a tie?"

"Ties aren't my style."

"You're too old for the casual look, Basher. If you're going to wear a luxury suit, you need to commit."  He motions to the top three buttons, all undone.  That's not by chance, of course.  Call me a slut, but I thought Jim would respond well to some skin.

"Says the professor with the gray hairs."

His eyes flash. Before he can continue to bitch, I retrieve the flowers hidden beneath his desk. "I got you something."

Coriander and jasmine dot the negative space between light blue anemones and white honeysuckle. The arrangement sits in a slim, smooth, black vase, a light blue bow tied around the top lip.  It smells soft and sweet with notes of citrus, much like he does.  I think it's a nice arrangement. It's maybe a bit muted, but it suits Jim, I think. And it says what I want it to say. It's pure coincidence that the anemones match my suit. 

His eyes bounce back and forth between the arrangement and me. I keep my face blank. He wants to know if I know the meaning behind those plants or if it's just chance, but he doesn't want to ask, and I do my best to keep my body language silent. Not to give anything away.  If he wants anything, I reason, he'll have to ask.  

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes look everywhere but at me. It's hard to tell in the fluorescent lighting of his office, but I think he's blushing again. "Flowers? Does this mean we're going steady?" The malice is almost completely absent from his tone. He just sounds playful. It's not the first time I wonder if he's using humor to mask insecurity. It's impossible to tell with Jim. Impossible for me, at least.

Maybe that's why I hate the Holmes' boys so damn much; they can read Jim infinitely better than I can. It's not fair that the two people in the world who can understand him want to kill him, but the only person in the world who wants to protect him is clueless. Well, not clueless. I'm not a total idiot.

I imitate John Travolta from _Grease_.  "Yeah, you can wear my letter jacket and my classring, if you want."

Beaming bashfully, he takes the flowers and knocks my feet off his desk. "Get out of my chair."

I don't. Instead, I stare him down.  "Do you have time for lunch?"

He shakes his head. "No, some of us have jobs and responsibilities."

_Damn, he knows how to push my buttons._ Being a trophy husband (not that we're married) is the fucking worst, and I _hate_ that everything I do for Jim, everything I do for Evelyn, and everything I do for myself is paid for by my fucking emotionally unstable masochist ex-employer. _Don't let him get to you._ _Don't let him win._

I stand up to stalk towards him, towering over him, walking him into a corner.  His eyes widen as mine bore into him.  I use the deeper register of my voice to say, "I'm taking you to lunch, kitten." It's strange, because that was the tone I once used with unruly subordinates. Never thought I'd add a term of endearment to the end of an order. At least not unironically. I used "Princess" occasionally to emasculate them.

He looks up at me with those giant black eyes, cool and even. "Ooh, are you going to manhandle me?"

I lean in, like I'm about to kiss him. His lips part in anticipation. He leans in too. I retreat just enough to avoid actually touching him. "Jim, go tell your supervisor or whoever that your boyfriend's taking you to lunch."

Livid that I don't kiss him, he growls and shoves me backwards into his chair. "Fucker!" he shouts as he slams the door behind him. I wait a few minutes. Jim returns, glares at me, then grabs his coat. "Let's go!" I catch the door before he slams it on my face.

~~

Jim stares at his reflection, paler than usual, as the tailor measures the length of his arm. There's a strange sort of recognition in his eyes.  Maybe discomfort at the reminder of who he used to be.    

Even before the suit is perfectly fitted, even when the sleeves dangle over his knuckles and the shoulders are far too puffy, he looks like the Professor of the Underground. His skin soft and smooth and supple, the bags under his eyes minimized, the slicked back hair--add the suit and it's almost like Jim never shot himself.

I watch from a chair in the corner, pleased with myself. I'd purchased this suit last week and set up the appointment with the tailor. Jim answers the tailor's questions in a clipped tone, but he doesn't seem to mind. This is a familiar scene, Jim getting fitted for a suit while I sit in the corner, serving as a bodyguard, only now he’s not snapping orders at me or having me text one of his other minions. He’s just staring at his reflection, stiff and still as a rock.

Jim continues to study the mirror long after the tailor has finished taking his measurements. My reflection appears next to his. The reflection of his eyes meet the reflection of mine. He clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking even more like the criminal mastermind he once was.

“I know Kiton’s not your usual, but I liked the green. It was dark enough that it wasn’t too flamboyant, but it’s still kind of fun, eh?”

He leans back against me. Per the plan, I shouldn’t let him; I should push him away, but I suppose this is fine. I press my cheek against the side of his head, catching the subtle scent of his hairgel and shampoo. “Do you like it?” I ask him.

“I’ll like it better when it’s not fitted with pins.”

I chuckle. “You just can’t say ‘thank you’, can you, kitten?”

“Why would I? I’m paying for this.”

_I swear to God, James, I will bash your fucking head into the mirror._ “I put a lot of thought into this, kitten. And you certainly seem fixated on yourself. Doesn’t it feel nice to be back in a luxury suit? Looking professional and handsome and devilish?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t blush. He smiles that Moriarty smile, and it’s almost like he’s whole again. “ _It does_ , tiger.” He turns to face me without the buffer of the mirror. That mischievous gleam is back in his eye. Evelyn’s given me that cheeky look a number of times. How can they look so much alike when they share no genes? To my surprise, he stands on his tiptoes and kisses my cheek.

I’m ashamed to say my knees go weak, and my heart flutters all the way down to my stomach. I never thought I’d respond to a man like this. I want to close in on him, press him against the mirrors and take him for all he’s worth in that moment. I want to take him but also give him everything. It’s sheer willpower that I don’t grab his thighs and wrap them around my waist and slam him against the wall there in the shop.

While he changes back into his "civilian" clothes, I make sure the tailor knows we need the suit by 6:00 p.m. tonight. He agrees, reminding me of the rushjob fees.

For lunch, I take Jim to a teahouse called Chashitsu in the middle of the city. Supposedly, it’s an authentic Japanese tea house, but considering there are no ceremonies taking place, and there’s a lunch special on the menu, I doubt it. Nonetheless, It’s an interesting little place, surprisingly quiet and cozy, bright and minimalistic in its design. We’re surrounded by bonsai trees and orchids, and we’re seated next to a miniature waterfall that’s built into the wall. The wall adjacent us is actually a giant plate glass container with its own environment of flowers and small cherry trees. Inside butterflies are flitting about, hiding beneath branches and leaves when some device above determines it’s time for a light mist.

“This is very beautiful, Sebastian,” Jim says absently as he studies the white walls and the colorful flowers surrounding us.

I’m taken aback by the compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”

After we place our orders and Jim has come back to his snarky arsehole self, he says, “So, today’s what? Pampering? Things? Nuptial gifts?”

“Beauty.”

“How poetic of you.”

“You appreciate beautiful things. In a deeper way than most people. You notice the details that make something beautiful.”

“You’re getting sappy.”

“No, I’m letting you know that I notice that you notice. Details are important to you, and I want you to be aware that I’m _actively_ trying to understand and surround you with things you can appreciate. I’m pursuing you, kitten.  I'm hunting you.”

“Seems counterproductive, telling me that you’re hunting me. What if I run away?” he asks with a teasing grin.

I shake my head. “You like attention. And I think you like the idea of being hunted. Of someone really knowing you and seeing you. Fighting for you.  It scares you a bit, too. I think that’s why you pissed off the Holmes’ boys; because you knew that they would _get_ you but you could keep them at a distance. No emotional investment.”

His face falls a little, and he looks away. “Unfortunately, I did get emotionally invested.” Again, it’s possible that I’m reading into something that isn’t there, but Jim sounds ashamed.

My heart aches. My poor obsessive Jim who can’t let go of Sherlock Holmes. Why couldn’t the bastard stay dead? The words pour out of me before I can stop them. “I’m not as smart as them or as smart as you, James. And I think that will always be a barrier between us. But I’m still here, solely because you asked me to be. I’m hunting you solely because I think you need it. You desperately want to feel less isolated. I’ll walk across the face of the sun to give you that. It’s not Stockholm Syndrome. It’s not just because we have a daughter. It’s because I actually, truly care about you.  I love you, Jim.”

It’s sickening, isn’t it, what love does to you? How it makes you rip open your chest so the other person can access your heart? How it shreds the skin and bone from your being and just leaves your veins and arteries vulnerable? How fluffy nonsensical phrases suddenly mean so goddamn much because your brain’s been skewered by some sort of amorous parasite?

Jim is silent. He avoids looking at me, which is probably for the best, because I’m pretty embarrassed myself.

After our food and tea arrives, Jim lightens the mood with the following question:

“So, getting abducted by Mycroft Holmes?” It’s endearingly precious, because that’s an experience we share, and I think he’s trying to be relatable.

I laugh. “Yeah, it was great.”

He laughs too. “Nice break from the monotony of fatherhood, isn't it?”  

“Yeah, I was out of it for two weeks or something. And when I came off of whatever he used to drug me--that was pure hell. Oh my God, I’ve never been so hung over.”

“It’s poison. It’s not just being hungover. It’s a poisonous concoction that weakens you and works as a truth serum. Not very well, obviously. You didn’t rat us out.”

“Mycroft’s assistant’s cute, though.”

Jim scowls, tossing an edamame bean at me. “Slag.”

“She electrocuted me. Broke my nose, too.”

“I don’t like electrocution,” Jim says thoughtfully. “Most torture I can withstand. But electricity just . . . gets into your veins. It’s all consuming and penetrative, and I just don’t care for it.”

“Figured that’d be your thing.”

“You’d think. But it’s just unpleasant. Hard to ignore.”

“Wait, wait. Ignore? I thought you got off on pain?”

He tilts his head like a lizard, the way he used to when he was the Professor. He scoots closer, speaking in a soft voice.  “Usually.  It’s a precarious balance, I suppose. I typically can’t climax without it. And I like the endorphin rush. Pain makes you fully aware of your body. Sometimes it’s just nice to exist in that space.”

“I don’t follow.”

“To just be aware that you’re alive. Pain requires immediate attention, your full focus. Mind over matter, of course, but that’s not the human default. When I’m bored or I’m just tired of my own existence, it’s nice to be reminded of the space I occupy, to be hyper aware of what’s happening to me. It’s centering, I suppose. There’s no past or future, just the moment of agony.” He must see the disgust on my face because he chuckles to himself and continues eating. “But that’s enough about that.”

“So, were you, like, aroused when he was torturing you?”

Jim smirks, those doe eyes boring into mine. “Who, Mycroft? Why? Are you jealous, tiger?”

“No.” _Yes._

“Of course you’re not. You don’t want me like that. You want me soft and pliant and squirmy and begging, don’t you?”

A pulse of arousal shoots through me. “I do.”

“You want to undo what the others have done to me, don’t you?”

He’s teasing me. “I do.”

“You should just take what you want, Basher. I’d let you.”

_Why does he say things like that?_ “I am, kitten. I wanna be good to you. So I am.”

He scoffs, annoyed at my answer. “It’s amazing that you’ve survived this long in the real world. Especially being an assassin.”

“Jim,” I start to lash out. _Don’t startle your prey._ I reign in the rage. “Jim, you have beautiful eyes.”

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Why thank you.”

 ~~

Evelyn insists on wearing her own three piece suit. Initially, I hate the idea, because I want my little lady to dress like a little lady, but she reminds me that Irene’s girlfriend Izzy wore a suit even though she was a girl, and who can argue with that logic?

So, Jim, our daughter, and I are all dressed up in our three-piece-suits when we make our way through the central business district to a rooftop bar along the Brisbane River. I tell the maître d'hôtel that we have a reservation, and he escorts us to a corner booth overlooking the river and the Brisbane skyline.

The sun has set, leaving the mauve sky streaked with pink and orange. It’s a warm-looking scene even though it’s a really only about thirteen degrees outside. Evidence of yesterday’s incessant raining is gone. The sky is cloudless and clear against the silhouettes of skyscrapers and towers. Lights flicker on and off throughout the city, blue, white, lavander, so that it looks like the buildings themselves are shimmering. The plate glass shields us from the sound of the outside, and so the lights are accompanied only by the low hum of other patrons' conversation and someone playing a piano.

Jim sits in the corner so that he can see everyone in the room as well as the view from the window. Evelyn sits beside me, across from Jim. She’s talked nonstop since we got in the car. About Jenny, about volcanoes, about the evils of deforestation, about fractions, etc.

“I think we should be vegetarians,” she says, slapping her menu closed.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Evey, you hate vegetables.”

She considers this. “Spaghetti isn’t a vegetable.”

“Are you going to eat spaghetti everyday?”

Evelyn huffs, rolling her eyes. “Daddy, Papa is being obtuse, and I just can’t handle it right now.”

_Oh really now? When did we start using “obtuse?”_

Jim tears his gaze away from the view, grinning at his daughter. Jim has a very special, sincere grin that’s just for her, and my heart just fucking melts every goddamn time I see it. “He is rather difficult, isn’t he?”

She nods, sighing again. She reopens her menu, looking positively exasperated with me. “He just wants to keep hunting is all. No regard for any of the kangaroos.”

“Oh my God, you are so sassy this evening!” I tap the back of her head.

She points at me, completely serious. “Don’t hit.”

I look to Jim for help.  “I’m getting scolded by a seven-year-old.”

Jim winks at her. “Yeah, but she is wearing a suit.”

“So am I.”

Evelyn gives me a sideways look, clearly unimpressed. “But mine looks better.”

Jim cracks up, hiding his face in his hands. I kick him beneath the table.

Evelyn pats my arm when she sees the shock on my face. “But it’s okay. You’ll grow into yours.”

“ _Excuse me_? I’ll _grow_ into my suit? I’m almost forty, baby girl! There’ll be no more growing!”

“Then just get a new one.”

“I think _you’re_ being obtuse, little miss.”

She giggles, hiding her face in the menu. “No, I’m _playing_ with you. There’s a difference!”

“So you do like my suit?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. Daddy thinks you look hot.”

Jim turns beet red. “Evey, that is not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to. I see it in your face!” She’s playing with both of us now. God, she’s an impish little girl. She folds her hands together like a proper little businesswoman and leans over the table. “I’m very observant, you see.”

I wrap my arm around her _so tiny little_ shoulder, blanking the expression on my face. “Okay, what do you see in my face, Miss Observant?” Unfortunately, I can’t keep a straight face when she’s staring at me so intently, tapping her bottom lip the way that Jim does when he’s processing.

“You wanna go see _Inside Out_.”

“That is false.”

“Whatever you say,” she says condescendingly. “I’m just a kid. You’re the adult. Excuse me, I need to go powder my nose.”

I gape. “I beg your pardon?”

"I have to go powder my nose!" she repeats.

"Jim Moriarty, is she wearing make-up?"

"No, Papa!"  She leans up to whisper in my ear. “I need to pee, but we’ve got to be fancy about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”  Relieved, I slide out of the booth and let her out.

Jim gets to his feet.  “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Daddy!  Jeez, I'm seven-years-old."

Perturbed, Jim hands her his phone. “Call Papa if you need to.”

She gives him an indignant look. “Why would I need to?”

“If you get lost.”

She rolls her eyes and takes the mobile, stomping off in the wrong direction, proud of the sound her shoes make against the hardwood floor. “Other way, baby girl.”

Jim watches her leave, shoulders tense. “I shouldn’t hover, but I hate letting her do anything alone.”  He scrubs his face as the waiter brings our drinks.  He takes a sip of his martini before it can reach the table.  

“Understandable. But she’ll be fine.”

“If she’s not back in two minutes, we go after her.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

“So do you really think I look hot?”

“Shut up, Basher.”

“I think you look gorgeous.”

His ears burn. He shoots me a look that I can’t read, then turns to gaze out the window.

I prop my feet up on the opposite seat, next to Jim.  “I want to touch you. Very badly. I want to pull you into my lap right now and kiss you.”

Still fixated on the view, he answers coldly, “Then do it.”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

“It’s not time.”

“If you’re the hunter, don’t you determine the time? Ultimately, can’t you do whatever you choose?”

“Self-control, sweetheart. Self-discipline.”

“What’s the point? Are you waiting until I beg?” He lowers his voice. “I don’t beg, tiger.”

“You don’t have to beg, kitten. Just ask.”

He laughs harshly. “How chivalrous.”

After two martinis, he’s less snarky. Quieter too, gentler. The three of us walk across the Victoria Bridge, enjoying the crisp air and beauty of the city. It’s a chilly night, the humidity in the air weighing us down. I give Evelyn my coat and hoist her up on my shoulders. We stop in the middle of the bridge to enjoy the lights of the city. It reminds me of the fireflies in our backyard in Texas.  It’s a beautiful sight. I say as much.

I feel Evey nod her agreement above me. “Yep. I like it better than Texas.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. But not as much as Nephin. Because it snows in Nephin. Nephin is my favorite place in the whole world.”

“Really? I think mine’s India. It’s a great place. Warm. Lots of animals. What about you, Jim?” I turn to look at him and my heart swells when I realize he’s taking a photo on his mobile of me and Evelyn. Of all the chaos and beauty around us, he chooses to capture us in this moment. It’s so sickeningly sweet and I’m completely at his mercy. If he would just ask . . .

Instead, he rests his head against my shoulder. I press a kiss to his forehead. He doesn’t answer my question.

_Just ask, Jim. Ask me to take you to bed and the hunt will be over._

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggestions to make this sexier are welcome. I'm having a difficult time with description and evoking eroticism. Help is welcome. (Also, I've quit drinking, and, son, lemme tell you, my muse is running amok but my vocab and prose are just like, "Nah." I feel like everything I write is stunted and cold and makes me think of lukewarm cheap coffee with creamer EVEN THOUGH I SPECIFICALLY ASKED FOR NO CREAMER.)


	5. Day Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses // Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basher is disgustingly sweet and out of character and I just don't even know. I've lost my edge. He's lost his edge. 
> 
> Enjoy your fluff, perverts.

It's not with entirely pure motives that I make breakfast in bed for my drama queens. By Thursdays, it's only through sheer force of will that I'm able to fight Evelyn out of bed. On Fridays, Jim has to do it because I just can't.

So, this Thursday, as part of the hunt, I carry Evelyn to Jim's bed and turn off Jim's alarm. Neither stir. The two sleep while I prepare breakfast. I went back and forth about what to prepare. I'm not a great chef, but I've gotten better since Jim's depressive spiral. Cooking was a sort of "sink or swim" thing. Initially, I thought I might try my hand at a traditional full English breakfast, but that's a lot of meat and fat and I want Jim to feel sexy, not bloated. At the same time, I want to prepare something that is comforting and familiar to him. I try to remember what Jim made for breakfast the mornings that I stayed with him before I knew I loved him. 

Eggs. That's all I remember. 

No, I'm not making eggs. Evelyn threw eggs at me when she was a toddler because she didn't like the way I made them. I suppose cereal is an option, but that's not sexy either. 

So then during the planning process of the hunt, I had to wonder _what's a sexy food?_

Not bananas, I reasoned. Not after our oral sex fiasco the other week. 

So, now, I'm in the kitchen slicing apples and cubing honeydew while bacon sizzles on the stove. Jim will probably bitch that it's not turkey bacon, but he can make his own damn breakfast in bed, the ungrateful arse. I drizzle honey on toast (whole wheat, because Jim's crazy and won't let me buy sourdough anymore). When the tea's ready, I pour Evelyn a glass of milk (she's going to spill it, I know she is, and I'll have to be okay with that), I place everything in the egg cruet set which matches this Victorian serving tray I bought specifically for this occasion. Once everything's arranged neatly (I think?) on the tray, I lug the thing to Jim's room, setting it on his nightstand so I can open the curtains. 

Both Jim and Evelyn groan at the bright winter sun invading the room and in almost perfectly in-sync, they both jerk the covers over their heads and roll over. I slide in the space between, earning further groans from both of them. "Wake up, sleeping beauties." 

Evelyn throws the cover off of her head, glaring at me. "Papa, Daddy and me both had too much to drink last night. Could you tone it down?" She retreats back into the cocoon of blankets. 

Jim, having heard this, sits up, looking perturbed. "Evey, I can't begin to explain why those sentences make me unhappy." 

"Oh my God, you're ruining my life," comes her muffled reply. "I need an aspirin, stat." 

"Where the hell is she getting this?" Jim gapes at me. "This is your doing! You drink too much." 

"That is clearly something she's picked up from telly. That's not my doing. I don't take aspirin. You shouldn't've let her drink grape juice out of a wine glass while we were out last night." 

"But it was so cute," he whines. "Our little business lady having a drink with dinner." He rolls over me to kiss the pile of blankets that contain our daughter. 

"Well, now she thinks she's hung over." 

"Daddy! Papa! For Chrissake, I'm trying to sleep." 

"All right, that's enough, Evey. We don't use that language," I tell her a little more sternly. "I've made you both breakfast in bed." 

Evey sits up too, eyes wild. "With eggies?" 

"No. I did not make eggies." 

"Oh thank God." 

I slide out from under Jim so that now I'm on the edge of the bed, closest to the serving tray. "All right, everyone sit up." I hand Jim his cup of tea, making sure the handle is on the left side, and Evelyn her glass of milk. "Evelyn, promise me you won't spill this." 

Evelyn, still squinty-eyed and pretending to be hung over, takes the glass. "Oh good, hair of the dog." 

Exasperated, Jim squeals, "No! No no no! No ma'am. Where is this coming from? This is not how you need to play make believe." 

She gives him a naughty side-wise grin while I place one of the small silver plates from the serving set on her lap, then Jim's. 

"Evelyn," Jim warns, "I'm not kidding. This is not how we play." 

Her shoulders sink, and she pouts until I put bacon on her plate. Jim settles back against the headboard, popping a blueberry into his mouth. "So, breakfast in bed? I'm mildly impressed." 

"Don't I feel special?" 

"We'll both be late, you know that?" 

"I'm not worried." 

"Me either," Evelyn says through a mouthful. "I think we should take a nap afterwards." 

I notice that Jim's scooted closer to me sometime in the last few minutes. I shouldn't celebrate a victory before it happens, but, well, you don't always get a lot of victories with Jim. I steal a piece of fruit from his plate. 

"Don't you have your own plate?" 

"Set only came with two plates. Seemed tacky to add one of the other plates we have." 

Jim nods his agreement. "Fiesta ware would clash terribly with Victorian silver plating." I'm surprised when he repositions himself so that his back is pressed against my chest, so that we're sort of cuddling. I should push him away. _Touch is for tomorrow,_ I want to tell him. But this is nice. He's touching me, I reason, I'm not touching him. "You should've put flowers in the center." 

"Sorry, I'm not a food designer or whatever that would be." 

"It's funny that the food is all in egg cups, but there's no eggs." 

"I can't tell if you're criticizing me or not." 

He smirks up at me before taking a sip of his tea. 

Throughout breakfast, I'm acutely aware of Jim's body resting against mine, how he's tensed to avoid moving too much, like any situating or settling would alert me to the fact that we're touching. I debate mentioning to him that he can relax. Letting him know that I know might push him away. My arm aches to wrap around his waist, to pet the slit of exposed skin where his pyjama shirt has been hiked up. I ignore it. 

We lounge around for a bit after breakfast is gone, postponing the inevitable meltdown when we make Evelyn get ready for school. In an effort to stay in bed as long as possible, Evelyn eats everything on her plate with no complaints and then settles on Jim's lap. "We should turn on the TV." 

Internally, I groan, knowing that we've come to the part of the morning where we fight about getting ready for school. (Note to self: call Evelyn's therapist about these pre-school fights.) I take a deep breath. "Wish me luck, kitten," I whisper before nibbling at the shell of his ear. I feel the shiver run down his spine before I slide out of the bed. "No, Evey, it's time to get ready for school." 

She looks at me as though I've just sold her to the circus, complete betrayed. "Papa no!" 

I brace myself for the tantrum. "Evey, you're going to school today. Just like you did yesterday and just like the day before that and just like you will tomorrow." 

She erupts. 

An hour later, I'm laying on the couch wondering why on Earth I love either one of these crazy people that I live with. They both require so much maintenance and labor, and I'm just not fit for it. But I love them, and fit or not, I'm here. 

Evelyn stomps from her room to the door. "I'm leaving and I'm not giving you a goodbye kiss, Papa!" She slams the door. 

Jim dashes out of his room, shirt still untucked, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Christ, EVELYN! Stop." He throws the door open, warning her not to move. He breezes through the den, grabbing his tablet and a banana from the kitchen. I catch him by the bag before he can head for the door again. He looks thoroughly shocked. 

"Thanks for walking her to school." I stand up so that I can kiss him. A short kiss, but a proper one nonetheless, one where I can taste his surprise and his tea and his toothpaste, one where he hums in pleasure, his body going slack against mine. I nip at his bottom lip before I let him go. 

Evelyn screeches her displeasure from the breezeway, stomping away from the threshold. "GUH-ROSS! I'm putting both of you up for adoption!" 

Jim licks his lips, still stunned. "Evelyn, if you take one more step, you're not watching any television tonight," he manages, half-hearted. He tilts his head for one more kiss, but I retreat before he can make contact. 

"Go on, kitten. Go make sure our daughter doesn't stomp into oncoming traffic." 

~~

I'm surprised that I don't hear from Jim until after 17:00. I can hear his hesitation on the phone, like he's pretty sure he knows I'm responsible, but that over-analytical brain of his is telling him it's entirely possible it's coincidence. 

"Jim?" I prompt him. I can hear the static of tinfoil being crumpled up in the background. 

Finally, he asks, "Have you been in my office?" 

I cover the speaker so he can't hear me laugh. "Of course. You saw me there yesterday. Remember I brought you flowers?" 

I can practically hear his scowl. "I mean today." 

"What gives you that idea?" 

He huffs. 

"I'm not sure what you want, kitten." I'm taunting him. 

"You're gaslighting me." 

"Never." 

"ARGH! Sebastian Moran!" 

I don't bother to conceal my laughter. "What is it, kitten?" 

"How many are there?" 

"Whatever do you mean?" 

He expends an exaggeratedly defeated sigh. "Did you hide Hershey's kisses all over my office?" 

"Why yes I did." 

"How many are there?" 

"I don't know. Coupla' bagsful." He's silent. "Why? Do you have reason to believe someone else would be hiding chocolates around your office?" 

More silence. 

"Dark chocolate's supposed to elevate your mood or some nonsense," I explain, pleased that I've rendered my smartarse boyfriend silent. Still nothing. "Are you upset, kitten?" 

"No." 

More silence. 

"Well if you've nothing else to say, I'm going to hang up." 

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THESE?" 

"Eat them." 

"Stop laughing at me! Is this supposed to be clever? Like, your clever way of telling me that I get no more kisses because I got them all at the office?" 

"Ooh, kitten, no. No, poor Jim." 

"Stop laughing, Basher. I'm warning you." 

"My dear, sweet, paranoid, criminal genius. No, love, you'll get kisses when you get home. It'll be especially nice for me because you'll taste like chocolate." 

"I don't appreciate your patronizing tone. Idiot." 

_Call ended._

~~

I manage to start zero fires while making a special dinner for my weird little family. Evelyn, however, manages to start three. The first one I'm sure was an accident (she left a wooden spoon on an active eye). The next two . . . I'm pretty sure my daughter is a growing arsonist. Or she just likes using the detachable sink hose to put out the fires because it's the one time she can spray it anywhere she wants. 

I really need to have a long chat with her therapist. 

Jim's working late this evening because he went in late. I wonder if his activities are purely academic. One way or another, I'm going to weasel my way into that aspect of his life. I can't just stay home all day and cook. Because I fucking hate cooking. I think the most emasculated I've ever felt was asking the kid at the grocery store where I could find pomegranate molasses. Why can't Jim be the sort of bloke that eats normal things, like beef? 

Unfortunately, the answer is I wouldn't love him if he was like other blokes. Fucking bastard. 

The kitchen floor is soaked when Jim gets home. Evelyn is screeching, "DADDY!" before he's even turned the doorknob. She slips on the floor, but it doesn't phase her. The great thing about seven year olds, I'm learning, is that even though they tear you a new one every goddamn morning, they're usually completely over it by the time school is out. I hear them exchange kisses and greetings in the hallway. 

"Daddy, you absolutely can not come in the kitchen." 

"Why's that?" 

"Because." 

His head pops around the corner anyway. 

"I haven't murdered anyone if you're checking," I assure him in a quiet voice. 

"Good. That's what the loo's for. What happened in here?" 

"Fires," Evelyn says evenly, as though it was completely normal. 

Jim frowns at the wet floor. "What fires?" 

"None of your business," Evelyn says, hands on her hips. "Daddy, get out. We're working." She prances back into the kitchen, careful not to slip this time. 

Jim leans against the threshold of the kitchen. "Do you know how to prepare a meal, tiger? Or is this just cheap chocolates?" 

I suck off the white chocolate that's gotten on my thumb. "No, that's dessert, prick. Evey, I'm not going to tell you again. Mop up the water before it leaks into the flat downstairs." 

"Would they drown? The people downstairs?" 

"No, there's not enough water. It would just make them very angry and the building manager even angrier." 

I look up to see Jim still lingering in the threshold. "This is supposed to be a surprise. Get out." 

Evey, who is mopping up the water by standing on a towel and swinging her body back and forth, parrots back, "Yeah, get out." 

"I pay the rent," Jim grumbles before disappearing into the den. 

_Duck breast with pomegranate-citrus glaze, steamed red potatoes, and roasted bell peppers._

I made that. I'm deeply, deeply ashamed. The bird looks beautiful, the potatoes are tender, and the bell peppers . . . certainly look roasted? In retrospect, I wish I'd at least shot the duck myself. Then there'd be some scrap of dignity to this. Instead, I bought it from some posh butchery where the owner lectured me on the superiority of muscovy duck to pekin. 

I can't bring myself to light the candles on the table, so I ask Jim to do it. I have to salvage what little dignity I'll have left after I present my boyfriend and my daughter with strawberries dipped in white chocolate. Evelyn sets the table, and Jim straightens everything behind her. 

Jim and Evey wait patiently for me to take my seat. For the first time in a while, Jim doesn't gripe when I ask Evelyn to say grace. Evelyn prays that the police will find her principal, Dr. Munoz, so that I can kick him for letting her leave school with that crazy lady. Jim and I both struggle to keep a straight face, as he's been dead and disposed of for about two weeks now. Evelyn also prays that no one in the world gets burned by lava tonight. She's a thoughtful little arsonist. 

Jim takes one of Evelyn's hands and studies it. "Darling? Did you wash your hands?"

"Are you kidding me? I cooked this meal." 

I try not to choke on my food. "No, you cooked a spoon and caught the mail on fire." 

Apparently the news that his daughter caught our mail on fire doesn't faze Jim. "Sweetheart, go wash your hands." 

"What? Why? I already washed my hands on the floor!" 

"All the more reason to go wash your hands for real." 

Evelyn jerks her hand out of his grip, eyes blazing as though she might actually be able to melt her daddy. "I. Already. Did." 

Jim sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Evey, please, I'm too tired to argue with you. Just please? For me? Go wash your hands." 

She throws her head back, exhaling a ridiculously long groan. "Fine. But only because you said please." She storms back to the kitchen sink. 

Once the water's running and Evelyn's singing something about washing her hands, Jim leans over to me and asks, "Is this part of your little trap?" 

I lean in too, sliding my chair closer to him so that I can press a quick kiss to his mouth. "Part of the hunt," I answer playfully. Another kiss. 

"Goddamned tease." He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me in for a forceful, frustrated kiss. On his tongue I can taste the overpriced wine he had before dinner, and I think, maybe, the remnants of dark chocolates. Evelyn's groan of disgust separates us. "Nice touch with the candles," he says, taking a bite of the duck slice. "Could have let the bird roast a bit longer, though." 

"Here's an idea. How about you plan some big romantic event, and I'll complain about everything?" I steal his glass of wine and take a big gulp, daring him to stop me. 

"Ooh, this is romantic, isn't it?" he asks with that mockingly flirtatious tone. "Sharing drinks, buying flowers, hiding chocolates. It's almost like we're a real couple." 

I lift his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. I give him the most sincere look I can, pouring my heart into what I hope is an affectionate, desperate look that says, "I love you even though you're batshit insane and mean-spirited and doing your best to keep me out of your life even though you asked me to stay, you stupid fuck." He looks mildly shocked. I watch the shadows flicker across his face as the candle's flame dances in the center of the table. He looks different today. I haven't realized it until now but I think he's gained weight. He almost looks healthy. The bags under his eyes aren't as pronounced. He's slept through the night almost every night this week. My beautiful Jim is blossoming back into himself, I think. I know I have to keep it PG, because now Evelyn is back in her chair, but I kiss Jim once more. "We are a real couple, kitten." 

His shoulders sag the tiniest bit. He scoots away from me, looking embarrassed. "Jesus, Basher, it's just dinner. Such high intensity." 

~~

Having finally gotten Evelyn into the bath, Jim flops down on the sofa across from the armchair where I'm reading. "It's 9:00. She's going to be hell in the morning." 

I crawl over to the sofa to sit against it, so that Jim and I are level. "But really that's not different than any other morning." 

"I should've gotten her in the tub earlier." 

"Yeah, but it was nice, the three of us at the table, talking. I will say, though, it's incredibly difficult to seduce you with a child in the room." I turn my body so that I'm face-to-face with Jim. "Was that a conscious decision? You putting me off?" 

Jim chuckles. "Basher, my darling idiot, don't romanticize me. You'll only end up disappointed." 

"What's that mean?" 

"It means that you think you're going to save me from some lonely existence or teach me that I'm lovable or break down whatever barriers you think I have, but, tiger, you're forgetting who you're dealing with. I don't have intimacy issues, I'm not pushing you away because I'm afraid, or any of that shite you see at the cinema. You're shadowboxing with your perception of me as some broken, wounded creature, but in reality, I'm just laughing at you." 

I lick my lips. I won't lie, that definitely plants doubt in my thought. What if I am just making a fool of myself? What if I'm that guy in _Death in Venice_ who becomes a parody of himself so that he can chase someone who will never love? What if I've truly sacrificed everything for an illusion? Jim had, after all, warned me that was all he could give. I search those black eyes for something to confirm or deny what he's said. Instead, I just find blankness. 

So either, there's legitimately nothing there, or he's fashioned a barrier, and because I'm still a practicing Catholic, and because I don't believe that God would ever create a truly soulless, loveless human being, I choose to believe it's a barrier. And maybe it is Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe my humanizing him is my attempt to justify the decisions I've made. 

"Sorry, tiger. Them's the breaks." 

_No. He's gotten better over this last week. He's responded well to being pampered, to being taken care of, to being loved. That must mean something. It has to. He needs to be fought for._

I kiss him, soft and slow, savoring the spark of citrus notes on his lips and tongue. "Sit up. I wanna try something." While he does, I head to the kitchen to retrieve the remaining white-chocolate dipped strawberries, a wine glass, and a tumbler. From the loo, Evelyn shouts, "I'm finished!" 

"Bloody hell," Jim says softly before yelling back, "No, you are not. You've been in there not five minutes!" 

"You said I didn't have to wash my hair!" 

"You still have to wash your _skin_!" 

"It has hair on it!" 

"Oh my God. Fine, you have to wash everything, then." 

"NO!" 

"Yes!" 

"But you said!" 

"I'm abiding by your logic, madam, which means I have to change what I initially told you to do." 

Evelyn's muffled groan echoes through the flat. The pipes hiss, signifying that she's gotten back in the tub. Carrying a glass of merlot, a tumbler of whiskey, and the cold tray of strawberries, I return to the den and take a seat beside Jim. Once I've settled everything on the coffee table, I kiss him again, and _fuck whatever he said earlier because he melts against me_. 

I break away, just a centimeter or two so I can say, in a low, deep voice, "Lay your head in my lap." Quick kiss. "And I'll feed you strawberries." 

With some hesitance, he obeys, situating himself so that his skull rests comfortably on my thigh. Despite my rule about touching, I run my fingers through his hair. "I feel like Kim Basinger in _Nine and a Half Weeks_." 

I don't say anything. I take a pull from my tumbler, letting the familiar burn comfort me, then take the cellophane off the tray. 

"Really, I ate plenty of them at dinner. I'll have to do so much maintenance dieting next week." He pulls a face. 

"The cinnamon bun, the chocolates, the wine, the duck, and now this. Aw, fuck. I regret this entire week." 

"There's my vain maniac." My thumb ghosts over his bottom lip before I offer him a bite of the strawberry. His breath is hot and humid against my finger tips. He's turned red all of the sudden. 

"This is stupid," he murmurs. 

"I did this for Anisa once or twice." 

"You paid her to let you do that." 

"She liked it," I continue as though he's not said anything. "I liked watching her lips move over the fruits. Watching her throat move as she swallowed. There's something strangely imitate about feeding someone, I think. Meeting a very basic need, maybe. I'm sure there's an evolutionary reason it's sexy." 

His black eyes meet mine and for the briefest moment, I think I see humiliation in them. He averts his eyes and nibbles at the treat I'm holding. 

"There's a vulnerability to it, I think. You have to be vulnerable to have some care for you, in the physical ways, I mean." I take a bite of the piece he's just bitten. "I think you make yourself physically vulnerable to people like Magnussen and Adler because it partially satisfies the human need for emotional vulnerability." 

"How very psychological, of you," he says sarcastically. "Maybe you should give up thinking altogether." 

I press the remainder of the strawberry to his lips, purposefully brushing the backs of my fingers against his mouth. "I've been doing a lot of thinking the last few weeks. About you." 

He takes the rest of the treat, and I think I see gooseflesh erupt on his arms. I reach out for another strawberry, biting into it before offering it to him. "About how much I want to fit into your life. I think what you said about my wanting a family that Christmas was true. I've always wanted a real family of my own. I've always wanted the opportunity to undo what my dad did to me and my mum and my sister. But see, I never realized how much I wanted those things until I realized that I loved you." 

I comb through his hair again. His eyes flutter. "Did I ever tell you about how I realized I loved you?" 

He shakes his head. The strawberry is gone. He licks at the melted chocolate on my finger tips. "I was laying in bed with Anisa. It was my birthday. We'd just had _incredible_ sex. Like, blood-boiling, wall-punching, screaming sex. I'd won a bunch of money at a casino. We'd both been drinking of course, and I'd started a fire in the fireplace." 

"How is this about me?" 

"Hush. Narcissist." I bring another strawberry to his lips, admiring the red stains that mark them. Shiny with saliva and strawberry juice. "Anyway, it was the perfect moment. And more than anything, I wanted to be back in Texas with you. Not just Evey, but you. More than I wanted hot women and sex, my heterosexual arse wanted to be with you." 

He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know what to say to that, Bash." 

I shrug and smile at him. "You don't have to say anything, kitten. I'm just telling you that I love you." 

He sits up, his back to me. "You didn't like it, kissing me." 

The statement makes my heart ache. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just wired differently, Jim." I nuzzle against his shoulder. "But I'm learning." I bite his shoulder, just hard enough to get him out of whatever headspace he was heading towards. "Like just now, I was admiring your lips." He turns the tiniest bit, and I pounce on him, pinning him to the couch so that I can kiss him. I have to be careful, because we're getting into _touch_ territory, and unless Jim asks me to make love to him, that's for tomorrow. I hold his hands above his head and hover above him, ensuring our chests and hips don't meet. 

My self-control is mostly gone, though. I'm kissing him like a randy teenager, sloppy and with entirely too much teeth. So much for being soft with him. Reigning myself in, I slow down, my mouth meeting his in quick, gentle taps that gradually become longer, more fervent kisses. He tastes like melty chocolate and strawberries. His tongue against mine ignites the burn of the alcohol on my lips. 

It's getting harder to stay still. I feel my cock filling with blood, aching for friction. Jim's hips press up against mine and he moans like a goddamn whore. 

Thank God, Evelyn storms out of the loo, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing her robe, dripping wet. She passes through the den, her wet feet _plat plat_ ing against the floor. Why does no one in this flat dry off before getting out of the shower? Back to my senses, I rip myself away from Jim. He's blushy and bleary-eyed, and pride swells in my chest. He seems dazed at the sudden loss of contact. He sits up again, eyes on me until he can focus. 

_Ask me, Jim. Please just ask me._

Evelyn stomps out of the kitchen back into the den with a wine glass of grape juice and stations herself between me and Jim. "There, I washed everything. Are you happy now?" 

Jim rubs his face. "You, my dear, are an absolutely terror. Come on, let's get ready for bed." 

She holds up a finger, stopping him. "Let me finish my juice. We've done everything you want to do, now it's my turn. I wanna drink my juice and watch telly." 

~~

Jim stands in my doorway as I strip down to just my boxers. I can feel his eyes on my skin, studying the muscles in my back, my thighs, my arms.

"Can I help you, kitten?" 

_Ask me._

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. I stalk closer. "What do you need, James?" 

"Nothing. I'm fine." 

A roar of frustration crashes against my chest, trying to get out, but externally, I sigh, kiss him once more and say, "Then go to bed, kitten. I'll see you in the morning." 

He stands on his tiptoes to kiss me once more and then disappears back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will edit after work. I'm impatient and want immediate feedback.


	6. Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch // Bath

Unfortunately, the fifth morning of the hunt starts off with a knife at my throat, the entirety of Jim's body and my own shock pinning me to the bed.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sebastian?” Jim breathes, realization dawning across his face. 

“Jesus Christ, you paranoid cunt! What the fuck?!” 

Color starts to return to his cheeks. He rolls off of me. It's only in his absence that I realize his heart was pounding against me. “Don't touch me when I'm sleeping, Basher.” 

“I've crawled in bed with you nearly every day this week!” 

“Don't touch me when I'm sleeping!” he repeats. 

“Oh my God. You're a lot stronger than I thought.” 

Jim scratches his head, rolling off the bed. “What are you doing? What time is it?” He checks the time on his phone and groans. “Quit fucking with my alarm, you horny slag.” 

“I thought that might be nicer than your alarm going off. I had no idea you were wound so tight.” 

“What were you even doing?” 

“I was going to. . .” My face burns at the admission. “It's how I used to wake up Anisa. Stroke her hair until her eyes opened.” 

He rolls his eyes, a cruel grin on his face. “ _How romantic_. Why don't you go wake her up then and I'll use my alarm like an adult?” 

_I oughta grab that goddamn knife and drive it right through your eye._

“Because I've already fucked Anisa. She's not prey anymore.” 

“Oh? Just prey?” he asks as he throws his robe around his shoulders. “I thought you wanted to marry the Virtuous Whore?” 

How does Jim know things? I'm fairly certain I've never told him that. Hell, after he “died” he shouldn't have had anyway of knowing that I continued to use her services. 

Suddenly he's in my face, our noses almost touching. “I'm not prey, Basher,” he says with that same cruel grin, his eyes scanning my face. “I'm letting you play, but you're not the predator.” 

The grin fades when I stroke his cheek. Internally, I'm boiling, but I've got to control my temper. Just until I win. Then I can go back to being the shitty boyfriend I am. (And, to be fair, I was only ever a shitty boyfriend with Jim. I'm a great murderer and an even better lover. Well, no, I'm definitely a better murderer. Assassin.) 

“I'm sorry, kitten,” I say softly, my thumb ghosting over his bottom lip. “Just wanted to touch you is all.” 

A flash of panic crosses his face. He doesn't know what to say or how to feel. He hides it well though. Ten years ago, I probably wouldn't've noticed. “Don't do it while I'm sleeping,” he grumbles before leaving the room. “Wipe your neck before you go wake Evey. You'll frighten her.” 

I touch the place under my chin where Jim had pressed the knife. Sure enough there's partially dried blood. Damn. I'm proud of the little bastard, if you want the truth. I worry that he can't protect himself or Evey when I'm not around, because I forget that Jim's pretty good with a knife. A pistol, not so much, but a knife . . . 

“It's your day to get the Princess up,” I shout at the ceiling of his room. 

His head pops into view. “You're trying to seduce me.” 

“Doesn't mean you get whatever you want.” 

“Then you're doing it wrong,” he sings, disappearing again. 

“If I have to fight her one more morning, I won't have the _stamina_ , kittycat.” 

He appears again, drumming his fingers against the open door of his room, glaring at me. “You assume too much, _pussycat_.” 

I sit up, flashing the vee. “You get in here and I'll show you _pussycat_.” 

“I've already seen it and I'm not impressed!” he hollers from the kitchen. 

“WHAT?!” 

_It's a shame that I have to be the one to kill James Moriarty._

~~

We go through the movements of our typical Friday morning routine. I make coffee for myself, tea for Jim, avocado toast for Evelyn and Jim. I manage to keep the existential crisis that accompanies making avocado toast at bay. Soon, I promise myself, I’ll be selling drugs or something mildly interesting. Just gotta get Jim in bed. 

I listen to Jim and Evelyn fight. Her therapist believes the fights are just habit now--she doesn’t have anxiety about going to school; she’s just in the habit of resisting. I’m sure somewhere deep down Jim is proud. Currently though, he’s just pleading with her to not wear her pink Batman (it’s not Batgirl, thank you very much, Evelyn doesn’t like Batgirl, she likes Batman, Daddy, GAHD!) costume to school. 

Jim storms into the kitchen, looking frazzled. His eyes are wide and wild and he looks like he might abandon Evelyn to the Australian wilderness. He pours a cup of tea, stirs in the honey and milk, and grabs his plate of toast from the counter. 

“Doing all right?” 

“I always said I would never give Evelyn drugs, but . . .” He starts towards his chair, but I grab the edge of his robe and pull him into my lap, wrapping my arm tight around his waist as he wriggles. “You’re still sweaty and gross.” He tries to pull away, but it’s half-hearted, just for show, so I keep my grip tight. “Ugh, and you have morning breath.” 

I don’t look up from my tablet. I do, however, rest my cheek against the shoulder of his overly fluffy robe. 

I like this. I like the weight of him in my lap. He’s heavier than most of the women I’ve had in my lap. Denser. His shoulders are broader and I have to work to find a comfortable position to rest my head. Every physical aspect about being in a relationship with Jim is different than being a relationship with women, and while those differences initially repulsed me, I find now that they’re growing on me. In fact, it’s more than that. I enjoy it. I crave the physical contact. It’s not _immediately_ satisfying and electric the way touching a woman is, but it’s calming and warm, quieting something deep, deep down in my chest. 

I’m not paying attention to the news anymore. Even though I’m not looking at him, my focus is entirely on him, on the presence of him in my lap. Saccharine feelings of affection blossom in my chest. I tighten my arm around his waist. 

“Looks like Magnussen’s news quality has risen since he died,” Jim says through a mouthful of toast, jutting his jaw toward my tablet. 

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, Janine took over. Did you know her?” 

“Fake girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes, personal assistant to my former lover?” He raises his eyebrows. “No, never crossed my radar.” 

I don’t bother to hide my disgust. “Lover?” 

“Would you prefer I say the man who choked me for sexual gratification when I was technically too young to consent?” He grins at my discomfort. “Oh, it was never against my will, Tiger,” he purrs. “In fact, I sought him out again and again--” 

“James,” I growl. The warm pleasant feelings I had not two seconds ago have been replaced with disgust and abhorrence. “Knock it off.” I remove my head from his shoulder. 

His breath is humid against my face and ear as he whispers, “I thought we were playing, Tiger?” 

Steeling my guts and my resolve, I undo the knot of his robe and slide my hand inside to touch the sleep-warmed skin of his stomach. “Why can’t this be good for you too?” I ghost my fingertips over the expanse of his chest, encouraging those affectionate feelings to return. “Just gentleness? Something a bit subtler?” I circle the edges of one of his nipples, feeling it harden. 

Jim takes a sip of tea, smirking. “You’d rather fondle your lovers like an adolescent in the dark room of the cinema. Quaint. Unfortunately, Tiger, I require a bit more _stimulation_.” 

“Hush. This could be just as stimulating, kitten.” I pull him tighter against me so that now my mouth is right at his ear. “Lightly tracing over the edges of your areola until your nipple is hard and aching. Beneath your robe, so no one can see. Just a manifestation of how badly I want to make you feel good and squirmy. Think about how it feels, just a small point of contact, and how that little bit of touch can light up your nerves.” I pinch the hardened nipple. Jim jolts almost imperceptibly. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Being made aware of your body, minus pain, of where I’m touching you, not to hurt you, just be close to you. It’s sweet, I suppose. Like the honey you put in your tea. Just a little touch and the tea’s sweet. It complements the bitterness of the tea, doesn’t it?” I can feel the short hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. I pinch him lightly again. “You’re aware of your body now, aren’t you?” I very gently scrape my teeth against his neck. 

He visibly shudders and shrugs me off. “No more than usual,” he snaps. 

I don’t let him get up. I keep him against me, on top of me. “Shh, shh, I’m sorry, pretty kitten. Maybe I’m not doing it right.” I move to the other nipple, teasing it to hardness. “Would it help if I used my mouth? My tongue?” 

He squirms against me. I reach down to squeeze his thigh, and his hips involuntarily seek out my hand. “I want you, kitten. I want to be good to you. Make you yearn for more.” I give him another squeeze. I continue to trace the dark skin around his nipple, the touch just hard enough to be more than a tickle. “What if I touched your cock like this?” 

“I’d fall asleep,” he says, not sounding as unaffected as he hopes. 

“I don’t think so.” I make an exploratory grab for his cock, which isn’t quite flaccid. 

He squawks, grabbing my wrist. “Cheat!” he hisses, rising from my lap. The look on his face reminds me of a particularly prudish nun I’d met in Turkey when I was six. 

“Liar,” I counter. 

He takes his usual seat across from me, his cheeks pink and adorable. He offers me one final glare before grabbing his tea and toast and tucking in. 

I’m grinning, of course, because he’s on the retreat. I’m winning. “You should let me love you, Jim.” 

“What an idiotic thing to say.” 

~~

I imagine Jim rolling his eyes at the photo I’ve just sent him of the bottle of pink champagne chilling in a bucket of ice and water sitting on the edge of the bath tub. The accompanying text read: _Join me._

I wait a few minutes, doubtful that he’ll respond. 

He does though. 

_I’m helping OUR DAUGHTER with her homework. .jm_

_Why? She’s got all weekend._

_Join me._

The layout of the bathroom is interesting. The shower is separate from the bathtub, and the actual toilet has its own little room, complete with sink and locking door. On each side of the room are two sinks, and whoever lived here before us had plaques installed over each saying, “His” and “Hers” respectively. 

I don’t get to use either of these sinks and only rarely do I use Jim’s bathroom. For a while it was because of the disdain I had for him--I wanted to keep as much of my life separate as I could because I was angry at him for taking away all the things I loved. Now, though, I’m planning to take over that “HIS” goddamn sink, so help me God. I’ll have my cheap shave cream there before Sunday. I am going to invade every aspect of James Moriarty’s life. I just have to win tonight. 

I fill the tub with water and pour in bubble bath that supposedly smells like sandalwood but to me just smells like soapy bubbles. There’s something extremely satisfying about plucking the petals off of a few roses and scattering them about the foam. The sight itself doesn’t do it for me, but I dated a lass once who really got off on rose baths. I’m hopeful it will have a similar effect on Jim. 

I send him a photo of the white foam, decorated with rose petals. 

_Join me._

While I wait, I strip down to nothing. I contemplated waxing my chest for tonight but after watching the youtube videos and seeing the suggested videos titled with some variation of “HOW TO TREAT BUMPS AFTER WAXING” I decided against it. I did do a bit of maintenance downstairs though. No hair removal, just some trimming. I’m a good boyfriend. 

He hasn’t responded when I check my phone again, and doubt starts to creep in. I shove it away. I’m gonna get Jim in this tub even if I have to use the Xanax. 

The last photo I send is of my reflection, totally nude, a heart-shaped box of chocolates placed suggestively over my groin. _Join me._

I wait. 

And wait. 

Have I misjudged? Have I lost my touch? Maybe it's harder to seduce a gay man than a straight or bi woman? 

No. I've followed the rules of the hunt, and they’ve never failed me long-term. Jim will come. 

I slip into tub, amazed at the sheer volume of foam on top of the water. I check the directions on the bottle, wondering if I added too much. 

The door swings open, bringing my attention to Jim Moriarty in the doorway, two champagne flutes hanging between his fingers. I smirk. _Two_ means he intends to stay a while. “You don’t drink champagne out of wine glasses, dummy.” He nods towards the wine glasses sitting beside the bucket of ice. 

“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who decided to show up.” I pat the foam, inviting him in. 

“I haven’t decided to stay.” 

“Then why two glasses?” 

He purses his lips. “I’m not going to pass up brut rose.” 

“Take a bath with me.” 

His eyes trail over the unsubmerged parts of my body, and I see him swallow. I give him puppy dog eyes. “Please, kitten?” 

“There’s not room,” he says even as he removes his shirt. 

I lean back, leering at him, watching as he slips into exposure. It’s interesting to me that his biceps still have so much definition, where the rest of him has gotten soft. I suppose it’s from the days that he used to swim, but I can’t imagine the muscle has hung around that long. Maybe he works out when I’m not looking. 

The first time we had sex, that trail of hair beginning beneath his navel had been such a turn-off. Now, though, I like it, I think. It’s comforting, as stupid as that sounds. His trousers and pants come off and he strikes some ridiculous Freddie Mercury pose when I wolf-whistle at his naked body. Not a hint of shame presents itself in the man who is Moriarty. 

He starts to sit in the tub so that we’re facing each other, but I maneuver him so that he’s between my legs, his back pressed against my chest. 

I’m ashamed to say that having his bare skin against mine is a subtle shade of heaven, and I squeeze him close to me, because I want nothing more than to be rid of the space between us. I nuzzle into his neck, breathing in the overpriced scent of who he was and who he is now. My arms, wrapped around his waist, can feel the impressions of ribs below the skin, but the impressions are much less severe than they would’ve been six months ago. 

He’s doing so much better. God, it’s _so good_ to have him like this. Mildly healthy, vanity returning, sassy as always. He shrugs me off when I go to kiss his neck. “I came in here for champagne, not snuggle time.” 

I find I can’t help myself. I growl and hold him in place, sucking at his shoulder. Holy fuck, I want him. I had no idea how much I wanted him until right the fuck now. His smooth back pressed against me, his legs slippery against mine, his neck so painfully accessible to me. 

_Jesus Christ, I want his mouth._

A soft sound he makes brings me back to myself, and I loosen my grip. I lean back against the the slope of the tub, taking a long, deep breath. He follows me, his head coming to rest against my shoulder. He holds out his hand expectantly. “I was promised champagne and chocolates.” 

“Ha, kitten, I promised you nothing.” 

“Oh, you were just showing off, then?” His Dubliner accent fades into my received pronunciation one. “I’m Colonel Moran and I buy limited edition _pink_ champagne.” 

“Oh is it limited edition?” I genuinely hadn’t looked. It was just the most expensive thing when I searched for “pink champagne” and “delivery.” I pick up the bottle to examine the label. 

“Well, limited quantity.” 

The cork pops off with minimal effort, and only a bit fizzes into the water, the alcohol dissipating the bubblebath. 

“So, tell me, Tiger,” Jim says after he settles back against me with his flute full of pink bubbles, “why are you doing this?” 

“Be more specific.” 

“Why the seduction?” 

“I want you to feel loved. I want to take care of you.” It’s a factual answer--there’s no romance or drama in my voice, but it’s like answering, “Four” to “Two plus two is?” 

“To what end, though?” 

I shrug. “So that you feel cared for?” 

He shifts against me. I can’t see his face but I can tell he’s frowning. “But what do you get out of it? Because if it’s just sex, you can take that, easy peasy. I’ve not been denying you.” 

“You haven’t been asking.” 

“So it’s important that I ask? You do want me to beg?” There’s a harrowing recognition in his voice that sends a chill down my spine. 

I put a stop to that train of thought. “ _No_. Nothing like that. At all. I want . . .” I freeze, unsure how to articulate what I want. “I don’t want anything from you, really. I want you to ask me, but only because I’m offering you my affection and my tenderness, and it’s always . . . nerve-wracking to offer those things up to someone.” 

With a great deal of contempt, he asks, “So you want my approval?” 

“No, it’s more than that.” I down the remainder of the fruity fizz in my flute. God, it’s terrible. “And really it’s nothing more than I want you to feel good. I don’t want to hurt you; I don’t want you to be aware of your body because you’re in pain; I want you to be aware of your body because everything feels so good. I want you conscience, enjoying the sensations, really experiencing what it’s like when someone really cares about what arouses you, what feels good for you.” 

“Pain and pleasure processing involve many of the same parts of the brain. In fact, pain releases dopamine into your system as well. It’s all relative. If I interpret the sensation as pleasurable, who are you to tell me it’s not?” 

_FUCK. I don’t know things like that. Why the hell did I get a degree in political science?_

_Don’t panic. Prey can smell fear._

To buy myself some time, I open the box of chocolates, offering one to Jim. He blows the bubbles away from my fingers and licks the piece from my grasp. I palm over his abdomen, over his ribs, across his chest, feeling him breathe in and out, feeling how his body moves even when he doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything. 

My hand comes to rest over his heart, beating in a calm, even rhythm. 

“Can I try something, kitten?” 

“What?” 

“Promise you’ll work with me?” 

“I’m not going to ride you in the bathtub,” he says, popping another chocolate in his mouth. “We’ll get water everywhere.” 

I flick the back of his ear. “No. Close your eyes. Lay back.” 

He does. Even so, he has to be a smartarse. “Is this some sort of trust exercise you found online?” 

“No, now hush. Hands down.” 

His head rests on my chest, eyes closed. Not clenched, just relaxed like maybe he’s asleep. “I’m going to touch you. Please don’t stab me.” I keep one hand against his heart. 

He snorts in response, readjusting his head. The fingertips of my free hand trace the lines of the bones in his chest, just the faintest touches. My champagne flute is pressed against his lips and he obediently parts them to let the alcohol slide into his mouth. I set it back down and resume lazily stroking his shoulders and chest. “Right now, you’re calm. Your instincts aren’t ordering you to fight, to get away. You took a sip from a flute, no idea if it was yours or mine or if I put something in it. It means a lot to me that you trust me. 

“It was my flute glass, kitten, just so you know. The romantic in me wants to think you could taste me on the rim of the glass.” I lick a broad stripe along his neck, gathering the faint taste of sweat and soap. Then another lick, and this time he shivers. “Focus on that one act. My tongue, soft and wet, dragging its way across the expanse of the sensitive skin of your neck. A basic instinct would be to shield the arteries, the veins there. Your neck is so precious to your survival, and yet,” I scrape my teeth against his nape, “all those nerves light up when I touch them oh-so-gently.” He shudders. “And your heart beats a little harder, but it’s not telling you to escape, to avoid. Your blood pressure doesn’t drop. Because this is _nice_ , isn’t it, Jim?” 

My fingers splay against his shoulder and I start to clumsily massage the tissue there. He sinks further down into the water so that I have to hold him tighter against me to keep him where I want him. I continue to speak in a low voice, still monitoring the beat of his heart. “See how you relaxed the tiniest bit when I started working the muscle there? You didn’t tense, didn’t guard. Because this inherently feels better than a whip against your shoulder, doesn’t it, kitten?” I mouth at the other side of his neck. He tilts his head to give me better access, and I can’t stop the groan reverberating in my throat. 

I circle one of his nipples like I did this morning. His breath catches. “I love your nipples, Jim. I love how sensitive they are. I love how sensitive you are. This is why you need to be handled properly, because someone like you, so smart, so observant--you can really appreciate it.” I nibble at his earlobe. He squirms minutely between my legs. “The skin there is so soft.” I very lightly scrape my thumbnail just beneath the nipple and he jolts. “See how good that feels, beautiful? And there’s no clamps or pinching or anything, just soft touches.” 

His heart beats faster, but it’s not that hammering that comes with terror or slowing that comes with shock. His skin feels hot beneath my palm. I turn my attention to his other nipple, circling the sensitive flesh there, lightly rubbing the center peak. I keep talking because it occupies the silence between us, keeps him from getting mouthy, keeps him subdued. “I want to suck your nipples, kitten. I want to lick them. Let me? Tell me what feels good, kitten? I want to make you feel good, I really, really do.” 

He gasps, and I take the opportunity to kiss him. Slow and soft, the way he hates, but for the first time in a long time, he lets me lead. He situates himself so that he’s straddling me now, his arms cradling the back of my head. Even though he’s above me now, he’s passive. Calm. His heart is beating against mine, responding to the mellow brand of arousal building between us. 

He tastes like bitter chocolates and salted caramel and what the hell ever fruit fermented to make this champagne. His skin is slick and silky against mine, hot from the bath. I feel the beginnings of his erection pressing against my stomach. I give him a few leisurely strokes before ending the kiss. He’s glaring at me again. 

“Why do you always look like you’re livid with me?” 

“Because I usually am. You’re a very irritating man.” 

I chuckle, burying my head beneath his chin. “This isn’t so bad though, is it?” 

I feel him shake his head in the negative, then rest his chin on the top of my head. It’s a strange movement. His hesitancy tells me he’s uneasy about this position. He remains a moment or two longer then says, “Okay, I’m cold.” He releases me, turns back around and submerges the majority of his torso beneath the hot water and bubbles. 

Once he’s resting comfortably against my chest, I ask, “Can I play with your cock?” 

He snorts, but there’s no derision. “Funny way to phrase it.” 

“Stop picking apart my verbiage.” His cock firms up in my hand as I start to languidly run my fingers along the length. “Drink some more champagne. You’re more pleasant intoxicated than sober.” 

“The petals are a nice touch.” One floats in a puddle in the palm of his hand. He shivers again as I lean in to nip at his neck. “How many other lucky ladies got this treatment?” 

“Well, if you must know,” I say between bouts of mouthing at his neck, “you’re the only one that’s ever taken this amount of work.” 

I feel him smile. “It’s been . . . pleasant, I’ll admit.” 

“What’s that?” 

“The--” his spine stiffens when I surprise him with a more forceful tug “--the suit, the breakfast in bed, all that. The things that actual couples do.” 

“We are an actual couple.” 

“I can’t give you what you want, Sebastian.” 

“That doesn’t change anything, though.” Suddenly, everything clicks in my head. I think I might actually have some understanding of what’s happening in Jim’s head. “This isn’t a business transaction; it’s not a tit for tat situation. It’s not a matter of ‘Oh you can’t give me what I want so I’ll go elsewhere.’ If that were the case, I wouldn’t’ve stuck around for this long.” 

“But Evelyn--” 

“Listen, love, if I didn’t _love_ you, I would’ve grabbed Evey and gotten the hell outta dodge that time you were in the hospital. I was angry with you for a long time because you asked me to stay, but ultimately I made the choice to stay. I’m here because I want to be here.” 

He’s quiet. I tilt my head to the side just enough to see the flush of his cheeks. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth hanging open, panting silently. 

“Tell me this feels good, Jim.” 

He nods lazily. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He shrugs. His head lolls lazily to the side. His body is starting to tense and his hips buck against my hand. A soft whimper escapes his lips 

“Hey, relax. No rush. Just enjoy this.” 

The hard line of his spine softens, settling against the curve of me, but his shoulders stay taut. He tops off his glass, and bites into a piece of chocolate. I skate the blunt edges of my nails along the underside of his cock, making him jerk. “If we’re still doing this is a hour, I’ll skin you.” He’s too breathless to sound threatening. 

I take the wrist of the hand holding the chocolate and guide it to my mouth. I suck the morsel from his fingertips, then the melted chocolate from his skin. Jim’s eyes are glued on the spot where his fingers disappear against my lips. “You were going to ask me something?” 

Once his fingers are thoroughly clean, I answer him. “Oh. Yes. Has anyone ever wooed you like this?” 

“I don’t do . . . I don’t do backstories, Tiger.” 

“I know. I’m just curious.” I lean in to whisper in his ear. “I have a confession to make.” I squeeze his erection. His gasp verges on a yelp. “Do you know what I did all day?” 

He swallows thickly. “No.” 

The hand that’s not slowly jerking him off emerges from the tub to tease his nipple again. “Well, for starters, I bought a toy last week. A plug.” 

He moans as he shivers against me. 

“I’ve been sort of afraid of it, you know. It’s not _big_ per se, but it’s new. Bigger than anything I’ve put inside myself before.” 

This really piques his interest. He cranes his neck to look at me. 

“It’s not in right now, of course. It definitely impedes movement. It hurt for a lot longer than I thought it would, but maybe I was just tense.” 

His voice is hoarse. “Why?” 

“Wanted to be ready. In case you asked.” I’m cheating now. It’s as if I hit a deer in the middle of the street, shot it and then swore up and down that I’d hunted it. I’m not proud, though. Not anymore. 

“Asked?” 

“Asked me to take you to bed.” 

The frantic energy resurfaces in him and his lips are on mine, his teeth bearing into my lips and tongue. He twists around again so that we’re chest to chest and water and bubbles splash out of the tub. He grinds his cock against my own growing erection, whining like a dog. 

“If I asked, would you let me fuck you?” 

“Of course, kitten.” With one hand, I start to jerk off both of us, nice and slow. “Just be gentle.” 

His hands wind their way into my hair, unable to get any real purchase since it’s so short. He kisses me again, tasting just as desperate as he did that evening in November the first time I had him. 

“I want to be good to you,” I repeat. “Relax, relax, there’s plenty of time.” 

“I want to fuck you,” he growls. His thighs squeeze around my waist. 

“All you have to do is ask.” 

“Basher?” 

“Hm?” 

“Take me to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated.


	7. Night // Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard. Like painfully, incredibly hard. And a lot of it requires suspension of disbelief, because there are parts of anal sex that just aren't that pretty. But, hey, it's fantasy. 
> 
> Basher still sees masculinity as penetrative so deal with that how you want. He's not my mouth piece, so bitch at him, not me. 
> 
> Responsible author disclaimer: Don't ever feel pressured to have sex of any kind, stay safe, use condoms, if it hurts, you can say no, yada yada yada, all the important things about sexual health.

Night // Victory

The idea of Jim penetrating me is terrifying, and as I’m toweling off, I almost start to retreat. The plug felt intrusive, not at all pleasurable, and it was difficult to relax the muscles that were desperately trying to keep the new object _out_. But I have to do this for him. Because he asked. Because I endure a bit of discomfort to prove to him that his pleasure is important to me. 

Deep breaths. 

Inhale. 

Hold. Hold. Hold. 

Exhale for _one, two, three_ . . . 

Jim’s eyes are on me. I offer him what I hope is a self-assured grin, but he must see through it because he asks me, “Are you nervous?” 

In one fell (obviously over-compensatory) swoop, I lift him off the ground, carrying him like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. “Just a bit.” I smile down at the damp, naked man in my arms. 

That flirty, lethal grin that screams Moriarty appears, and I’m more than happy to see it. “My big bad tiger is really just a little cub.” He pulls me down for a kiss. “Have no fear; I can be oh-so-gentle.” 

I love this side of Jim. “Now I’m just plain frightened.” 

His grin broadens. “Am I really your first?” he asks as I carry him to his bed. 

“Popping my anal cherry, you are.” 

“I’m surprised.” 

I lay him down on the bed, pinning his body below mine. “Why’s that?” 

“None of the girls you fucked wanted to finger you?” 

“Nope.” 

“I bet they did. They just didn’t say anything.” He cups my face with both hands and pulls me down for a long, sweet kiss that’s more lips than tongue. He purrs against my mouth, tugging me closer to me. “Aside from the plug, what other prep work have you done?” 

I roll off of him, reaching for the drawer on his nightstand. “I don’t go into anything blindly except a fight. I’ve done my research.” The burn on my face spreads to my neck. “I’m all nice and clean, food consumption was timed for the occasion, _and_ you’ll be using this lubricant or no deal.” 

He reads the label and smirks. “Really? Two percent lidocaine?” 

The heat of embarrassment increases. I must be crimson at this point. “Keep talking and you can forget the whole thing.” 

He reaches out to trace the scars along my face. “You’ve been shot, beaten, stabbed--but this is what you need a numbing agent for?” 

“I’m not into pain, kitten.” 

Jim’s eyes scan my face. He strokes my bottom lip with his thumb. “Not at all?” The way he asks the question makes affection swell in my chest. He’s not taunting me, and he’s not overly sentimental either. Something about his expression makes it seem like it would be completely normal for him to ask me, “How can I make this good for you?” 

And, since I’m not a liar, I’m floored. Who the fuck did Jim just become? And how do I answer that question? Anisa was a biter, and that was enjoyable in the heat of the moment. But when Mycroft’s personal assistant electrocuted me, sex was the last thing on my mind. 

“Yeah, no, not at all, I guess. I mean, I guess . . . that’s a complicated question, and not one I want to explore tonight.” 

Something cold and calculating washes over his face. “Fair enough.” And just as quickly he looks kind and loving, and I have to wonder how much of this is show and how much of it is legitimate. Is he even capable of feeling kind and loving? If the masks were stripped away, what would remain? Would he even be recognizable? 

I flop onto the bed, arms spread dramatically. “So, how do you want me?” 

Jim skims his palm over my abdomen, up my chest, licking his lips absently. His eyes trail up my body slowly until they’re boring into mine. My stomach flips. The darkness in his eyes is overwhelming. There’s not even a reflection of the lamplight in them. A shadow of something predatory skates across his face then vanishes. He erases emotion from his face and tone and asks, “Would you prefer to be on your back, on your knees, or on your stomach?” 

I shake my head. My courage is fading fast. “Up to you, boss.” The epithet comes out but I don’t know why. 

“I’m trying to salvage your sense of masculinity.” His tone is colder than I like. “Is face-to-face while I fuck you too much? Or is being on your knees, arse in the air too submissive?” 

My mouth is dry. I try not to choke on my words. “You’re the one with intimacy issues.” 

A frown deepens the lines in his forehead. “Basher,” he warns. 

“If I was one of your one night stands, how would you have me?” 

He sighs. “To be candid, Tiger, I’ve only ever penetrated those I would immediately kill afterwards.” 

All of the blood drains from my face and I think my dick probably shrivels. And this bizarre jealous side of me rears its ugly head. “Why didn’t you have me kill them?” 

“You did sometimes. But sometimes you just want the hands on experience.” He grins broadly, reveling in the shiver running down my spine. 

“Well then. That’s rather . . . sphincter-tightening.” 

He laughs a genuine laugh, one that seems to be free of ulterior motives. He briefly buries his face in my neck before sitting up again. “Okay, Tiger, leave it to me. Lay on your stomach.” 

The order is both comforting and disappointing. On the one hand, I won’t have to face my defiler while my manhood is essentially ripped from me. On the other, I won’t be able to read Jim’s face. “Don’t murder me,” I tell him after a long silence. “I mean it.” I roll over onto my stomach, feeling exposed and vulnerable and not in a sexy way. 

I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re naked at a very important event. 

I hear Jim crack his knuckles behind me. My heart starts to pound uncomfortably. 

“My big, brave tiger,” he murmurs, his palms drawing small, firm circles down my shoulder blades, my flanks, my lower back. 

Again, I’m very surprised that Jim appears to possess tenderness. He draws a line up my spine, the pressure spreading to ease the tension in my shoulders. A groan involuntarily leaves me. He works my back over for a long while, and I find myself drifting. 

_WHAT IF HE DRUGGED ME?_ penetrates the haze of sleep, and I jolt. 

“Relax,” he says softly. I’m aware now that his hands are now firmly massaging my buttocks. “You’re tensing again.” He kneels closer, hands still on me, and asks, “I won’t hurt my pretty tiger. You’ve too much entertainment value.” 

That provides more comfort than it should. Jim can probably live without love, but with his racing brain, he can’t live without entertainment. I (probably) won’t die or be permanently injured. Tonight. 

I practice the deep breathing exercises I’d read about online. 

“Good, that’s good.” He sounds like he’s far away. “Perfect.” 

The realization that Jim is complimenting my body and not my attempts at relaxation brings with it a swell of pride. Jim thinks I’m sexy. 

Jim wants to be here. 

Jim wants me. 

“Good boy, just relax. That’s better.” His fingertips trail down to my sac, stroking the underside of my cock. “I’m going to touch you while I open you up. If you start to tense, it’ll hurt.” 

I laugh knowingly. This afternoon’s session with the plug had not been enjoyable, even with the desensitizing lubricant. 

A slippery finger massages my hole, the skin there beginning to tingle as the lidocaine takes effect. It’s not completely numbing, just enough to make things tolerable. “Usually,” Jim starts, his voice quiet and low, “I’d pull your hair. It’s a distraction technique. But I don’t usually spend a lot of time prepping my victims.” 

The sound of his voice is a comfort. He’s with me. He’s here with me. (How weird is it that being fucked by a murderer is less terrifying than working a buttplug into yourself?) This isn’t happening _to me_ ; he’s working with me. (Is this Stockholm Syndrome?) 

I’m mumbly when I say, “I’m not a victim.” 

I can hear the smile on his face when he says, “No, you’re not.” He lightly pats my hip. “Up, just a bit. That’s better.” I feel a bit silly, arse in the air, but then he’s pumping my cock, and _hail Mary full of grace_ it feels so good. He’s not used the lubricant, so the sensation isn’t dampened at all, and I think maybe I can make out the ridges and whorls on his palm. 

One finger slips inside of me. Heat washes over me. 

_No no no no._

_It’s okay._

_This is wrong._

And then Jim’s pressing kisses against my lower back. “Sebastian,” he purrs, tone verging on playful condescension. Knowing it’s a ploy to help me relax doesn’t make it any less effective. “My big, strong soldier.” He gives my penis a particularly firm stroke. “You’ve taken such good care of me, haven’t you? Done so much for our little family. Relax, Tiger, breathe.” 

He slips further inside me, and then-- 

_FUCK._

I don’t know if it’s painful or pleasurable, just that it’s an intense sensation, and I’m suddenly hyper aware of my dick, of the fresh bead of precum leaking from the head, and of the intimate intrusion. I think I might actually have squealed like a little bitch when Jim touched me there. 

“There he is,” Jim chirrs, and honestly, it’s the most aroused I think I’ve ever heard him sound. He brushes against _that spot_ again, and the entirety of my mid-section feels like it’s vibrating. Holy shit, what’s happening? 

I’d read about the prep, about the logistics of anal sex, but somehow I’d managed to overlook research of what it actually feels like. 

I’m not sure that I like it. 

I’m not sure that I don’t like it. 

“That feels good, doesn’t it, Tiger?” 

I pant back, “‘s’weird.” 

“Just wait.” He runs the tip of his finger around the edges of my prostate _while_ swirling his thumb over the head of my cock, and I’m overwhelmed. I’m squirming, unsure if I want more or escape. “Keep still. Good boy. Let’s try that again.” 

It feels marginally more pleasurable when he repeats the action. My dick feels harder than I can ever remember, and the fear and resentment at being penetrated starts to dissipate. 

“Okay?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“Tell Daddy what’s wrong.” 

I chuckle into the pillow. Jim knows I hate that. It’s his way of teasing, I think. And the teasing makes this seem less scary, less like my identity is being altered and my body invaded. “It’s just . . . a lot.” 

He continues to pump my erection, his fingers spreading the precum along my length. “But it feels good, doesn’t it, Tiger? When I do _this_ ,” he massages that goddamn spot, “you can feel it in your cock, can’t you?” 

I nod, unable to answer. 

“In that way, I can manipulate your cock without actually touching it.” 

Goosebumps break out across my body. My cock twitches. The sensations of the internal massage and the external fondling start to bleed together and threaten to overwhelm me again. I’m tempted to bail out, not because it hurts, but because I have no idea how to process these sensations. 

“You’re sensitive, sweetheart.” He leans over my back to mouth at my neck. “Who would’ve guessed my vicious bodyguard assassin would be so sensitive on the inside?” He accentuates the last few words by increasing the pressure on my prostate, and I bury my face in the comforter to scream. 

“You’re leaking, handsome. You’re soaking the bed.” 

“Jim. . .” I don’t know why I say his name. I don’t know what I want from him. I’m sweaty and cold except for where Jim is touching me. I hate how much my tone sounds like a whine. 

“You’re soaking _my_ bed.” 

I whimper again. 

“But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Tiger? To invade my routine? My life? You got it. You won.” 

I laugh weakly into the bed. Pieces of courage return to me whenever he speaks to me. “Are you mocking me?” 

“Only a bit. I mostly mean it.” 

“Can--can you try just the sides of it? The edges?” 

“Like this?” 

I moan. “ _Yes._ ” 

“Better?” 

“Yeah.” 

The shock wans and the intensity of the two sensations melts into something bearable if not enjoyable. Jim continues to murmur teasing words of approval, and somehow, it makes me feel warm and gushy. His skin on mine grounds me, keeps me far enough out of my head that I don’t chicken out. 

The numbing agent in the lubricant lessens the sting when he introduces a second finger. I constantly remind myself that being penetrated is not inherently emasculating, that I’m not the “girl” in our relationship. 

“I’m going to spread you now. You might feel a little cramping.” As he scissors his fingers, he kneads my lower back. I wonder if maybe Jim was a massage therapist for one of his covers because he’s remarkably good at pinching the right spots to loosen muscle and break up tight fascia. “There we are. What a good boy. Oh Tiger, you’re being so good for me. Touch yourself, just while you adjust.” He laughs. “You’re adorably blushy. It’s a glorious juxtaposition.” 

The burn on my face has traveled down to my torso, and I suddenly remember something I’d read about spontaneous human combustion. I imagine the victims of such an event probably were also getting anally penetrated by their boyfriends, because I’m at least ninety-seven perfect sure that the heat radiating off of my face is going to catch Jim’s bedspread on fire. 

“Come on, Tiger,” he teases, his voice low. “Touch yourself.” 

I groan. 

“Please? For me?” he mock-begs. “I wanna see it, please, Mr. Tiger? I’ll be so good for you.” 

I chuckle nervously into the pillow. “God, you’re such a bastard.” I reach beneath me to start stroking my erection. It doesn’t feel as good as Jim’s erratic touch, but it definitely eases the tension in my lower back. 

Jim sounds like he’s far away again, lost in the mist of his own arousal. “Yes, that’s beautiful. God, you’ve got gorgeous arms. And hands. I want those hands around my throat, around my cock, in my hair.” He’s sliding in and out at a purposely slow pace, teasing the outsides of the little spot inside of me that makes me leak like a goddamn faucet. 

When he withdraws to get more lube, I’m shivering, unsure if I miss the fullness of his fingers inside of me or if I want to end the whole thing there and then. He digs his thumbs into the small of my back, drawing tight circles, releasing whatever remaining tension is there. 

“Ready for three?” 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” 

“You can always back out, Tiger.” 

“Who knew the Professor of the Underground was such a considerate top?” 

To his credit, he slips in three fingers carefully, even if he’s not particularly gentle. “Don’t get sassy, Tiger. I have a ginger oil that’s really not recommended for anal play, but I’m not opposed to using it.” 

“That’s my Jim.” 

He hums at this, sounding very pleased. “ _Your_ Jim?” 

“You’ve got three fingers up my arse; the least you can do is let me have that.” 

“I’m not criticizing, Basher.” The hand that was massaging my back returns to my cock, batting my fist out of the way. “I might just like it. Remember? You told me I belonged to you?” 

My back arches when he reaches my prostate again, not bothering to ease me into the touch. My heart races. I feel too full and the tips of his fingers pressing firmly against that spot is too much. “You got pissy about that.” 

“I did. But you wanna know a secret?” 

I can’t muster an answer. He’s easing his digits in and out of me. The pillow beneath my head is drenched in sweat or drool or a combination of both. 

“It actually makes me feel safe now.” 

My stomach flips. A weight evaporates from my shoulders. 

“My big, strong hunter, protecting his little family. It evokes a very primitive sort of reaction in me, thinking of you lying to your captors about where we are, who you’re working for. Lying to torturers to keep me safe and snug in our little flat.” 

I think I’m moaning. I’m not sure. My head is swimmy with the combination of pride and arousal. 

Jim must know the effect it has on me. I can hear the knowing-verging-on-haughty tone in his voice, but it doesn’t matter. He’s playing me, and he’s doing a great fucking job. 

“And now, after all your hard work this week, well. . .I’ll probably get hard every time I smell sandalwood. You’ll have to come to my office, keep me in check. _Your Jim_ can be very naughty, Tiger. And there’s an adorable little research assistant ‘round the corner from my office--” 

“I’ll fucking murder them.” 

“Oh I know you would, Tiger. You’re not easily domesticated, are you? And what would you do with me, hm?” 

“Can’t hurt you, Jim. I can’t do it.” 

“Really? Not even if I begged you with tears of repentance? I would love it. My rugged Tiger having mercy on me, letting me suck you off. Jesus, Basher, I could come just thinking about it.” 

My limbs start to feel like jelly. Tremors are coursing through my body like electric currents. My hips, to my dismay, are pressing back against him, and I have no control over any of it. 

“You know, I tried to buy your services from Irene. She wouldn’t rent you out. And when I tried to get one of her other boys, she forbade it. Said she knew you wouldn’t take kindly to someone else handling your man, and her insurance would skyrocket if you murdered one of her employees.” 

I’m too gone to remind him that I worked as her bodyguard and not as a whore. The idea of Jim paying someone so I could fuck him is painfully hot. It wouldn’t be selfish or wrong--I would just be following orders. Like always. 

“Don’t come, Tiger. Please wait. Can you wait? Because after I fuck you, I want your thick cock down my throat. No, shut it, pretty Tiger, you may have won, but don’t I deserve a little something too? A consolation prize? For being receptive to your advances?” 

I can’t answer. The beginnings of what promises to be an intense orgasm are roiling in my groin. 

“And God knows how sensitive you’d be after an orgasm triggered by both penile and anal stimulation.” His voice has taken on an element of darkness. “I’d probably have to tie you down, you’d be so desperate to get away. But I get what I want, Tiger. And I want your cock choking me until I cry.” 

He withdraws again, earning him a long, pitiful whimper. I don’t know what I want anymore; I’m just a mass of desperation and lust. “I’m going to fuck you, Tiger, but I promise I’ll be slow. Getting the head in is the worst part. After that--it’s a piece of cake.” 

He reaches into the drawer, withdrawing what I assume is his own lubricant and a condom. Moments pass, and he lets out this whorish moan that makes my cock ache. “Quit touching yourself!” The words slip out of my mouth before I even have time to process them, before I even realize that I’m jealous that he’s masturbating. 

He chuckles evilly. “Just getting slicked up. You’ll thank me for it, rest assured.” Another suggestive moan. 

“That’s enough,” I growl, glancing over my shoulder at him. 

He moans again for show. “But it feels so good, Sebby.” He winks at me, mischievous as ever. 

My temper flares. “Don’t call me that.” I reach behind me and grab his wrist, preventing him for touching himself further. “I’m not getting cheated out of my winnings because you’re a trollop.” 

_Reign it in, Moran. Don’t let the pervert provoke you into doing something violent._

His grin broadens. “I’m not the one with my arse in the air.” 

Humiliation washes over me again, and I bury my face in the pillow. 

Jim purrs above me, the head of his cock teasing the rim of my entrance. “That’s a good boy.” He reaches around, fondling my erection again, pulling another series of groans from me. 

And then the pressure builds as he eases into me. “That’s it. That’s my pretty soldier. Relax. Jesus, you feel amazing, Tiger. Shh, shh, we’re almost there.” Jim’s body covers mine just as the discomfort gets to be too much. He nuzzles between my shoulderblades, vocalizing his pleasure with hums and groans. 

Beneath him, I struggle to keep still. My lower back is starting to tense, almost like a muscle spasm. 

_It’s okay. This is for Jim._

_My Jim._

The thought calms me enough that I’m not screaming when the head is fully inserted. I suddenly understand why women are so obsessed with foreplay. Jesus, Jim’s dick isn’t even that thick, but I feel like someone’s driving a wedge into me in preparation to split me open. 

He’s gone silent. 

“Jim?” 

His voice is hoarse and dream-like. “It’s been . . . a while. And you’re still so tight.” He inhales deeply. “Tiger. . .” He sounds heartbreakingly lost. 

“What? What do you need, kitten? What’s wrong?” 

There’s a lull, an unusual beat before he speaks, and in that moment, I hope and pray that my lover will open up to me, that out of his mouth will pour vulnerability and devotion and a confession that maybe he _didn’t_ like what Magnussen did to him, that _this_ is better, that _I’m_ better. 

But that’s not who Jim is. 

“It’s so strange, knowing I won’t blow your head off after this.” 

I snort into the pillow. “You fuckin’ maniac.” 

He starts to rock his hips minutely, and the pressure starts to build again. The tip of his cock teases the edge of my prostate, leaving me a shivery, uneasy puddle again. 

_Holy fuck, he’s inside me._

_I’m going to Hell. I’m on the expressway._

Deep breaths. 

Inhale. 

Hold. Hold. Hold. 

Exhale for _one, two, three_ . . . 

“Okay?” Jim asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I go further?” 

It’s stupid, but I really am touched that Jim’s not just going at this like a wild man. “I think so. Just slow.” 

“You’re the boss,” he says wickedly. 

I turn my head just enough so that he can see me roll my eyes. “Bastard.” 

He presses deeper into me, and I completely forget how to breathe. Whereas his fingers were spaced and uneven and provided a respite, his prick _fills_ me, pushing up against that _one goddamn sweet spot that I swear to God if I survive this I’m going to have removed_. There’s no escaping the pressure now, and it consumes me. 

Jim is hissing his pleasure above me. He’s stopped jerking me off, both of his hands digging into my hips, leaving nail indentations in the skin. “Why’d you have to use that damned numbing lube?” he grumbles. “I could’ve avoided wearing a condom, and then I could _really feel you_.” 

The thought of his bare skin, slick and wet inside of me, pressing that agonizing button thrills me. He slides in a bit further, and I have to bury my face in the pillow again to muffle the shout. I honestly don’t know if this is pain or pleasure and the sensations are just too much. “Jim, please, please touch me. It’s . . . it’s almost too much.” 

“Of course, Tiger,” he says sweetly. He begins a languid pace, tugging and teasing my erection. “But you have to promise not to come. Promise?” 

“Kitten, right now, I’m trying to panic.” 

He presses a kiss between my shoulderblades. “Mm, my brave tiger. Letting me play with him. Letting me _push_ him. So good for me. To me.” He’s deeper now. He settles against me, remaining still save for his lips against my back. “You’re just oozing testosterone and muscles and predation. In fact, it’s all over my sheets, now. You’re just blending into every aspect of my life, aren’t you, handsome?” 

“Keep talking.” I need him to. 

“Bossy little bottom, aren’t you?” He squeezes me, making me choke on my retort. “I’m going to move now.” There’s room in the statement for my objections. 

The first thrust (if it can be called that because Jim is mercifully gentle) is shocking. I can feel every vein, every ridge of his cock as it slides against my rim, and that’s a bizarre feeling. I can feel him slip deeper into me, the width of him torturing my prostate, the length of him touching new, tender areas that his fingers somehow missed. 

A frightened noise exits my throat. So much for a brave tiger. Jim’s free hand massages the length of my spine, expertly taming the physical tension growing there as he moves in and out of me. “After that filthy series of voicemails you left me, I’ve spent all week hoping you’d sneak into my room, hoping you’d ravage me. Imagining you in my bed, touching yourself. You’ve got a beautiful cock, Bash. Thick and long. I wanted to see you edge yourself, tease yourself to the point of climax and back down with that soldier’s self-discipline. 

“I’ve daydreamed about that willpower, you pounding into me after I’ve already come, demanding that I come again even though I’m oh-so-sore and sensitive. And you’re so sentimental, I can’t beg you to stop because you might do just that.” 

His voice falters. I can hear him panting. 

“Close already?” I tease him, though my voice sounds more like a frightened child. 

“I’ve been on edge all week because of you, slut,” he growls, thrusting harder so that I whimper. “And I certainly don’t have your self-control.” His movements are becoming more erratic. He goes silent, the sound of his skin hitting mine echoing through the room. 

And the sound coupled with the sensation is too much. “Tell me this is good, Jim.” I sound like I’m begging. I think maybe I am. “Tell me this is good for you.” 

“It is, Tiger. Sinfully good. Fucking a beast of a man, watching my cock slide in and out of you. Knowing you presented yourself for the taking. To me.” He groans, this thrust going too deep. I cry out, arching my back. “Sorry, sorry, Sebastian. My poor, long-suffering Tiger. Daddy didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

I don’t correct him this time. I cry out as he changes angles so that now his thrusts are shallow and his trajectory is focused solely on that sensitive little button inside of me. “Is this better?” 

“You know fucking well it isn’t!” 

“You’re so sensitive there. I love it. I could teach you to come from anal play alone if you let me.” 

“It hurts.” 

“No, pretty kitty, no, no, it’s intense. It’s a lot. But Daddy won’t hurt you. I’m very good with my toys until it’s time to throw them out.” 

He bucks more forcefully into me, hitting that spot harder and harder until I’m whining with every inward stroke, trying my best to squirm away. “You can’t throw me out,” I warn him. 

I see stars when his thumb swirls over the head of my dick. “No, not with your exemplary masculinity and loyalty. Fuck, Bash, you feel so tight; so good. Ride me one day? I wanna see how much you take on your own. I wanna see your face, when I fuck you. If I didn’t think it would hurt too much, I would flip you over now and take you face-to-face. See your face when I come inside of you.” 

“Ah, so romantic,” I tease. 

He manages a laugh, but the truth of the matter is that Moriarty is close, so close. His pacing has gotten off and his depth perception is way off because he’s way too deep inside. He’s just bucking now, into tight, hot, wet heat, and I can appreciate that can make thinking a tad difficult. I’ll be damned if he’s not doing his best not to hurt me. 

“How close?” 

“Close.” 

“Come on, kitten, fuck me hard, come for me. Show me who’s boss?” I taunt him, flashing a smile over my shoulder. 

His eyes are gray, gone. He fucks into me harder so that he’s nearly completely sheathed inside me. He’s so deep now. I can’t breathe. He pushes further in. He works my cock frantically. 

His hipbones are pressing into the swell of my buttocks as he bucks. He’s pulled my hips closer. He can’t go any deeper, so he rocks back and forth, groaning and moaning and saying my name. 

And even though it hurts, even though it’s uncomfortable, I know he’s not done any permanent damage, and I goad him on. “Come, kitten, come for your Tiger. I worked so hard all week to get your attention, show me it was worth it. Show me and you can suck me off, just like you want, yeah?” 

He is beyond words now, bucking and grunting, tenderness gone out the window. Despite my preservation instincts telling me to avoid the discomfort, I grind back against him and he sobs. Again. I can feel him tense. 

“Harder, boss. Fuck me like the wanton thing you are.” 

One last frantic thrust and his body trembles against me. He comes with a muffled groan, his teeth embedding in my arm. Warm spurts of semen fill the condom, and I’m very glad for that little piece of latex. 

Well. Thank God that’s over. I think. 

His erection softens, and the pressure that has been building inside of me gets a reprieve. Jim’s being inside of me is less intimidating when he’s flaccid. He eases his way out, but I still whimper when he catches the rim. 

After disposing of the condom, Jim rests against me, panting and stroking my flanks with shaky hands. 

“Kitten?” 

“Mm?” 

“Before that, when was the last time you came?” 

“That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to ask.” 

“Has it been awhile?” 

“If you’re asking if I’ve slept with anyone else, I haven’t. Now shut up, I’m trying to enjoy the afterglow.” 

Delicately, I roll over onto my back so that I can wrap my arms around him. “I don’t do post-coital cuddles,” he tells me, yet does nothing to fight me off. My erection brushes against his thigh as I situate him against my chest. “Oh God, Tiger, you’re so thick and hard.” I swear to God, he’s whimpering. 

“Do you want to watch me take care of it, kitten?” 

He shakes his head. “I want you to fuck my throat.” 

“No, you’re a sleepy little kitten,” I tease. “You’ve been wined and dined and coerced into bed. Just watch.” 

“Don’t fucking touch it,” he growls, baring his teeth like an animal. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll finish you properly.” 

“Ooh, I don’t know if I like that phrasing, considering you kill your bedmates fairly regularly.” 

He grumbles into my chest. He runs his fingers through my chest hair, tracing the lines of sinew beneath my skin. With his other hand, he strokes the underside of my cock, teasing the vein there. 

“Don’t tease, please, kitten. I’m already overwhelmed.” 

He slides down toward the foot of the bed, the grace of a reptile returning to his motions. He licks a long strip up the length of me, pulling a groan from me before taking me in his mouth. Since he’s mostly sober, I think it’s harder to take all of me at once like he did those few weeks ago. He manages about two thirds of the way down, then swallows around me. 

He bobs back up, takes a deep breath and pops back down, this time successfully swallowing me to the root. 

“Jesus, Jim,” I breathe. “You’re a piece of work.” 

He laughs through the mouthful and begins to bob his head up and down. I can see the line of my cock in his throat and it both arouses and worries me. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

He looks up to glare at me. 

I reach out to stroke his hair, and he lets out this sweet little hum, leaning into the touch. He glances up at me again, ever so briefly, and I feel like I could just drown in those eyes. 

I make show of it, moaning and bucking here and there, until I come down his throat. There are tears in his eyes and his face is red when he’s finished, and I pull him into my lap to cuddle him. After that whole ordeal, I’m feeling more affectionate than usual. Needier too. 

Eventually though, Jim grows tired of the contact and he weasels his way out of my arms, scooching to the far side of the bed and burying himself under blankets. I’ve rolled over onto my side and am dozing when I hear, “Sebastian?” 

I roll over to face Jim, but he stops me. “No! Roll back over. Face the other way.” 

“Oh, sorry,” I yawn. “Thought you said my name.” 

“I did. NO! Don’t roll over. Look at the wall.” 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to tell you something, you idiot. NO! If you can’t follow directions you can sleep in your own bed.” 

I chuckle, still high on post-coital reward chemicals. “Bitch, this is my bed now. My precum is all over your side of the bed.” 

“You’re disgusting. BASHER! Stop touching me. Now get on your side of the bed.” 

With a sigh, I scoot to the other side, rolling onto my side to look away from Jim. 

“Now,” he begins, his voice soft. “Stay on your side.” 

“Okay, I am.” 

“Now, then.” He clears his throat. In a very cold, calculating voice, one that leaves no room for misunderstandings or errors, he says, “After much deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that I love you. NO! STAY ON YOUR SIDE!” His foot catches me in the kidney. “It’s not up for discussion. I don’t do cuddles. Good night.” He flips off the lamp by his side of the bed. “Stop looking at me.” 

“Jim?” 

“No.” 

“Just one kiss?” 

“No.” 

I take one anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharing smut is always hard. Comments make it easier. Constructive criticism makes it worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments for +1 karma.


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